


The Prince and the Fox

by Plenoptic



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Drabble, Freeform, M/M, Sexy Times
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2018-03-09 20:59:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 61
Words: 68,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3264227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plenoptic/pseuds/Plenoptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Volpelli drabbles for all occasions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Massage

“Oh, God. _There_. Right there. _Yes_ —harder…”

Machiavelli smiled, digging the heel of his hand into the knotted muscles between la Volpe’s shoulder blade and spine. “Here?”

“Yes!” The thief’s keening turned to soft purrs when the tension bled away. “Perfect. Christ, you’re good at this.”

“Mm.” Machiavelli placed a hand on either side of the thief’s neck, rubbing his thumbs up and down along the highest point of Volpe’s spine. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

“I know, I know.” Volpe stretched, gathering up the closest pillow and nuzzling his face against it. “I’m going to sleep, if that’s alright.”

“It most certainly is not! You promised to do me next!” Machiavelli leaned forward over his lover’s back, delivering a sharp bite to Volpe’s bare shoulder and grinning at the hiss he received in return. “Come on, pass the oil.”

Grumbling, Volpe fished out from beneath the mountain of pillows and tossed it over his shoulder. Machiavelli poured it out on his back, and Volpe squirmed at the coldness until the oil heated under his lover’s diligent ministrations.

Niccolò smiled, spreading his legs a little wider around Volpe’s hips, tracing his fingers over a prominent scar across the thief’s shoulder. He frowned when Volpe hissed against the pillow.

“Does it hurt?”

“Mm. It never quite healed right.”

Machiavelli bent to kiss the mark, murmuring against his lover’s skin. “Beautiful…” He returned his hands to Volpe’s body, working on the tight knots at the base of his spine. He couldn’t help but pause to run a hand over the curve of the thief’s ass, smirking when Volpe growled at him.

“Stop that…”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

Grin widening, Machiavelli bent his head to nip at Volpe’s ear. “Does it excite you?” He slid a hand beneath the older man’s body, chuckling against Volpe’s nape when he found the proud erection pressed up against the bed.”You’re hard, Gilberto.”

“No shit.” Volpe whined, struggling to lift his hips away from Machiavelli’s teasing. “Please go back to the massage, I was really enjoying that. Please?” He peeked over his shoulder at the younger man, pouting. “ _Tesoro_ …”

Machiavelli sighed, reluctantly letting go of Volpe’s hard length and running his hands along the thief’s sides, smiling a little at Gilberto’s delighted purr. “Alright. But I’m taking care of _that_ next.”


	2. Office

It was a struggle to keep his hips still. Machiavelli groaned, tightening the hand he’d coiled in Volpe’s dark hair. The thief hummed around him, lowered his head and sucked at the stiff cock in his mouth.

Panting, Machiavelli cast another furtive glance at the door of his office before opening his legs wider, letting Volpe shuffle forward. The thief took his lover’s ass in both hands, drawing off Niccolò’s prick to lave his tongue around the swollen head.

“Hurry,” Machiavelli murmured, smoothing his fingers through Volpe’s hair. “Before someone comes in.”

Volpe grumbled, tugging Machiavelli’s hose down a little lower before taking his length in again, swallowing him and sucking hard. Niccolò muffled a cry, tipping his head back against his chair and closing his eyes, his breath ragged and uneven.

“Machia?”

Machiavelli lifted his head so fast his neck ached in protest. A second knock sounded from the door, Biagio Buonaccorsi’s well-meaning and polite voice inquiring about a mistake made by a notary even while Niccolò and Volpe scrambled. The thief scuttled backward to hide under the desk, folded beneath it at an uncomfortable angle, and Machiavelli tucked himself back into his hose and pulled his chair in just as Biagio stuck his head in through the door.

“Sorry, Boss, but Marcello says—”

“It’s fine—” Machiavelli paused to clear his throat, dry as sandpaper from panting. “It’s fine, Biagio. Come in.”

The younger man smiled and stepped inside, placing the document in question on Niccolò’s desk. “At first I thought it was an issue of them having the date wrong, but then I realized they’d gone and notarized the wrong draft…”

“Mm.” Machiavelli lifted his quill from its ink, scratched a note and his signature at the bottom of the document. “Anything else?”

“Yes—Antonio wanted us to revise the Riario contract…”

Volpe rolled his eyes, picking idly at the laces of Niccolò’s boots, smirking at the sight of his lover’s obscenely swollen cock trapped within his hose. The young man’s leg was bouncing, his calves and thighs tight with his denied release. Volpe slid a hand up Niccolò’s leg, grasping his knee, and barely swallowed a laugh when the opposite foot kicked him in the side.

  
  



	3. Exhaustion

Volpe frowned, tapping a toe against the ground with an impatient huff. He felt awkward and self-conscious, loitering around the front entrance to the Signoria and avoiding the curious stares of Signori and various assistants and notaries as they headed home for the night.

Niccolò was late. Volpe tipped his head back to consult the immense clock on the Palazzo Vecchio’s tower, just barely visible in the gathering darkness. Late by quite a bit. Grumbling, he pulled his hood a little lower and slipped through the front door, taking the side staircase and jogging up to the second floor.

Someone had blown out most of the candles, but Volpe found Machiavelli’s office by memory. His ten underlings, Biagio and Agostino included, had gone home for the night, leaving their desks in various states of disarray. Volpe picked his way around the debris—someone had knocked over a good three hundred pages of documentation and neglected to pick any of it up—and made his way for the largest desk in the back of the room.

He caught sight of its occupant and quieted his footsteps, his heart melting. Niccolò was slumped forward over his desk, sound asleep, his head pillowed on his arms. Someone had tossed his coat over his shoulders and left him to rest. Volpe knelt beside him, smoothed a hand over the young man’s short crop of dark hair, brushing a thumb over the little blonde patch that grew inexplicably just above his right ear. Niccolò mumbled and stirred, rubbing his face against his sleeve.

“Come on, _tesoro_ ,” the thief murmured, sliding his arms beneath his lover’s body. “Let’s get you home.”

He picked him up with only minimal effort, chuckling when Niccolò grumbled and turned his face into the older man’s shoulder, slinging a lazy arm around Volpe’s neck. It was a good thing he’d been so deeply asleep; Volpe strongly suspected that trying to carry around a conscious Machiavelli would be very much like trying to cuddle an extremely irritable tiger.

Volpe stepped out into the hallway, Niccolò cradled in his arms, and stopped when he came face-to-face with two departing Signori.

“Er,” he said, shifting Niccolò’s weight, “I’m taking this.”

Both men nodded, stupefied, and Volpe turned on his heel, heading down the stairs while Niccolò mumbled something about expenditure reports into his cloak.


	4. Seat

 

“So then—” Biagio paused to laugh, hiccuping, “so then, he says—he says— ‘Know her? Why, I’ve only just fucked her!’”

Agostino and Niccolò both howled, clutching the desk to stay upright. Antonio della Valle growled, pushing the nearly sobbing Biagio off his shoulder and straightening his robes.

“Can’t you three be idiotic elsewhere?”

“Oh, come on, Boss, that was funny. You’re supposed to laugh,” Biagio said, pinching the older man’s cheek and laughing when Antonio slapped him away.

“Listen, you insolent little prick, don’t think I won’t have Marcello fire your ass—”

“Hey, Machia.”

Niccolò turned, smiling at the First Chancellor’s assistant. “Marcello.”

“You have a second?”

“No, I’m right in the middle of something devastatingly important.”

Marcello rolled his eyes and beckoned him forward. Grinning, Niccolò slid off of Antonio’s desk and followed his friend, jogging to match Marcello’s long strides. Marcello pulled him into a side room—a notary’s office—and closed the door.

“I have a very important question to ask you, and I want you to answer me honestly.”

“Of course.” Niccolò tucked his hands into his pockets, a little uncomfortable by his boss’s sudden change in demeanor. “What is it?”

Marcello fixed him with a hard look, seeming to survey him, before speaking. “Do you want a Signoria seat?”

Niccolò stared at him. “What?”

“Not now, of course—the minimum age is twenty-nine. But if you want one, it’s never too early to start preparing.”

“I…” Niccolò shook his head, flummoxed. “Is… what…”

Marcello smiled, clapping him on the shoulder. “Chancellor Scala wants me to take his seat when he retires, and asked me to recommend my replacement. If you’re interested, I’ll give him your name.” His grin faltered a bit when Niccolò blinked. “If you don’t want it—”

“No!” Niccolò shook himself. “No, I want it! I’m interested—yes, please, give him my name, I’ll—I’ll happily apply, when the time comes, I mean, I—” He stopped when Marcello laughed, collecting himself. “What about Antonio? Biagio?”

“I want Antonio on as my assistant. You can bring Biagio up as yours—Agostino, too, if you’d like. You’ll have to get sponsors, of course—me and Antonio will support you, of course, but you’ll want one more within the Signoria at least, and one outside—and Scala’s commendation.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m—I’m excellent.” Niccolò couldn’t force the grin off his face. “Marcello—thank you.”

“Well, you’re the best man for the job by far—the Signori aren’t making enough use of that brain of yours. And you’ve earned it.” Marcello patted him on the cheek. “And maybe now your mother will stop giving you a hard time about finding a permanent position, hm?”

Niccolò laughed, grinning stupidly after at Marcello’s back as the older man left. A Signoria seat. A member of the Signoria. _Him_. A disgraced lawyer’s son, a boy without a florin to his name, with blood more common than—than—something terribly common, he couldn’t even think of an appropriate analogy. He stood by himself in the office for several minutes more, his thoughts awhirl.

His stomach did a funny flip. Gilberto. He had to tell Gilberto. Forgetting entirely to tell Biagio and Agostino his news, he left the Palazzo Vecchio at record speed, nearly bowling over  a few returning notaries as he went.

Firenze was rambunctious and loud, chattering and shouting filling the warm afternoon air. Niccolò weaved his way through the crowd that always occupied the Piazza della Signoria, taking to the rooftops when the throngs of people became difficult to navigate. It was high noon; that meant Volpe would be surveying the city, mapping out the guard in each district. Niccolò scanned the rooftops, located the tall guard tower closest to the Palazzo (because Volpe liked being nearby while his lover worked), and took off at a run.

It was a tough climb in the heat, but he was too energized to care. Panting, he pulled himself onto the top of the tower, grinning at the sight of the wily thief perched on the edge.

“Gilberto!”

Volpe jumped and whirled around, dropping into a crouch, but blew out a sigh when he saw who had shouted. “Christ, Niccolò, you gave me a damn—”

“Marcello offered me a seat.”

The thief straightened and blinked. “What?”

“Not now, but he’s going to recommend me to Bartolomeo Scala, the First Chancellor. If I get two more sponsors, then when I turn twenty-nine, it’s mine.” Niccolò stopped, breathless and grinning. “Well?”

Volpe’s violet gaze warmed. He stepped forward and took the boy’s face in his hands. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations, _carissimo_. I know how badly you’ve wanted this. And you deserve it. They couldn’t have picked a better man for the job.”

Niccolò beamed, his cheeks reddening at Gilberto’s praise. The thief smiled and took the boy in his arms, lowering his mouth to the side of Niccolò’s throat.

“I’ll be more than happy to bed a member of the Signoria…”

Niccolò released a breathy laugh, clutching Volpe’s hips and moaning when that mouth found his pulse and bit in. “Scandalous. We’ll have to redouble our efforts to make sure we’re not found.”

“It won’t be a problem.” Volpe grasped his jaw and kissed him, tasting his lips before coaxing his mouth open. Niccolò only pulled back when his head swam for lack of air, keening when a devious hand grabbed his ass and pulled their bodies flush.

“Now, then,” the thief murmured, his eyes glinting in the sunlight, “I have a few ideas about how we can celebrate.”


	5. Gratitude

Volpe awoke with an urgent mouth on his cock and hands in his clothes. For several seconds he lay completely still, his breath frozen in his chest, an unwitting moan pulled from his mouth when a hungry tongue swiped the head of his prick.

“Ni- Niccolò?”

Machiavelli sat up, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and straddling Volpe’s hips. He sank down on his lover’s spit-slicked length with a quiet groan, rocking his hips to seat himself fully, his breath coming in shaky gasps.

“Ah. F-Fuck. Gilberto.”

The thief pushed himself up on his elbows, cupping  Niccolò’s face in a trembling hand and pulling him in for a hard kiss. Machiavelli moaned into his mouth and grasped his wrists, pinning his lover to the bed.

“Fuck me,” he gasped, his voice low and rough in Volpe’s ear. “Gilberto, I want you.”

“You have me.” Volpe groaned, tipping his head back to expose his throat to Machiavelli’s teeth, hissing in pain at the sharp love bites that found his pulse. He wasn’t entirely sure that he was the one doing the fucking; Machiavelli was in control, riding his lover with soft, snarled moans. Volpe could do little more than lay submissive beneath him, hitching his hips upward when he felt  Niccolò’s thighs tremble with fatigue.

Machiavelli came with a sharp gasp, rocking forward to spill all over Volpe’s abdomen, his grip on his lover’s wrists tightening almost to the point of pain. Volpe twisted his arms to break free, wrapped his hands around  Niccolò’s waist to steady him while he pounded himself up into the younger man’s body, coming with harsh grunts. Machiavelli let himself be taken, his hands on Volpe’s shoulders, his head hanging between his braced arms.

“ Niccolò?” Volpe sat up with difficulty, pressing his mouth to Machiavelli’s shoulder, trailing light touches up and down his sides. “Are you alright? _Tesoro_?”

“...Fine.” Machiavelli sat back, letting Volpe’s softening prick slide from him with a wince. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. You know I’ll never object to laying with you.” Volpe kissed him, tasted on his lover’s lips and tongue something more profound and more secret than lust alone.  “What brought this on?”

“Nothing in particular. It’s just, when I think of you, sometimes the wanting…”  Niccolò paused, tracing Volpe’s handsome features in his hands, and offered his lover a rare smile. “I am so glad to have you.”

Gilberto pulled him close, tangling a hand in his dark hair, and they fell back against the bed, lost themselves to slow, soft kisses.

 


	6. "Vanity"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Piagnoni" was the name given to Savonarola's followers- the ones who ran around Florence burning people's valuables and non-religious works of art and writing.
> 
> It literally translates to 'whiner' or 'crybaby.' Which is beautiful.

It started with a walk. Volpe didn’t have any particular destination in mind; he ambled through the Piazza della Signoria, looking longingly up at the window of his lover’s second floor office, but Machiavelli had made it abundantly clear after the desk incident that Volpe was no longer welcome at his place of work. Sighing, the thief kicked at a stone in his path, his features sliding into a pout. He’d finished his rounds, booted a few pickpockets out of his territory, harassed some of Savonarola’s boys, and lifted a few valuables out of the piles of  luxury items that dotted the city.

The air tasted like ash. The puritanical monk had been in top form for the last week, setting fire to just about everything he could get his hands on. His followers—scathingly called _piagnoni_ —were at every door, raiding every business, chasing patrons away from every brothel, inn, and tavern. A few of Paola’s girls had been beaten, and Ezio, in between picking off Savonarola’s lieutenants, had spent the last several days tracking down the followers responsible and returning every bruise a hundred fold.

Volpe frowned to himself. He missed his Florence, a city that was lively and vivacious and, yes, drowned in sin, but at least that was by choice. The Florentines were passionate, zealous people, people who loved arguing and fucking and arguing about fucking and fucking while arguing. Savonarola had broken them, sapped their spirit, and it made Volpe’s guts coil with distaste.

Someone hit his elbow, and Volpe stumbled back. A young man in a black sack-cloth robe pushed him away, panting, trying to regain his footing—one of Savonarola’s boys, almost on cue. Volpe braced himself for a sermon, but the _piagnoni_ went right on running, though not quite before Volpe caught sight of a thick book tucked in his arms.

“ _Hey_!”

Volpe heard the familiar shout and dodged to the left just in time to avoid being bowled over by Niccolò Machiavelli. The chancellor skidded to a halt, scanned the piazza, and took off after the _piagnoni_ in a flat-out sprint, shouting after him. Volpe dawdled for a moment, considering—it was hot today, he was wearing semi-new boots and didn’t feel much like running—and followed them at a brisk walk.

They’d made it all of about three hundred feet before the piagnoni made the mistake of looking over his shoulder to track his pursuer. He stumbled, and Machiavelli lunged forward, tackling the monk and sending them both tumbling head over heels into the dirt.

By the time Volpe caught up, Machiavelli was sitting on top of the other man’s chest, beating him over the head with the book, ignoring the boy’s yelping pleas, battering at his raised arms.

“If I— _ever_ —catch you—in the Signoria—again—I’ll _cut your fucking dick off_!” Machiavelli smacked him one last time before staggering to his feet, clutching the book to his chest and breathing heavily. “And also _kindly_ go fuck yourself!”

“You’ll be sorry!” The young man sat up, clutching his bleeding nose, his eyes somewhat wild. “On Judgement Day, He will descend from high to judge the living and the—”

“And the dead, I _know_ , and every whore and lecher and politician and learned man and woman and anyone else who is even _the slightest bit interesting_ will go to hell, and we’ll all sit in the flames and have a nice glass of wine, _thank you very much_!”

The _piagnoni_ spat blood at his feet. “Sodomite.”

Machiavelli threw his arms in the air. “Your powers of rhetoric are peerless. Consider me defeated.” Huffing, he turned on his heel, stopping with one foot in the air when he caught sight of Volpe. “Oh. Gilberto.”

The thief arched an eyebrow, indicating the book. “Please don’t hit me with that.”

“So long as you’re not trying to steal it and _burn it_ ”—Niccolò shot a scathing look at the _piagnoni_ as he staggered to his feet— “I have no such inclination. And _you_ , scat. Begone. Shoo. However one gets rid of you people.”

The young man stumbled away, still nursing his bloody nose, and Machiavelli turned back to Volpe with a long-suffering sigh.

“I hate them. So, so much.”

“Well, he won’t be bothering you again, that’s for sure.” Grinning, Volpe fell into step beside his lover, nudging him with an elbow. “You don’t think there was a more diplomatic way to handle that, _Signor_  Chancellor?”

“One of the greatest diplomatic texts in history was about to be destroyed. There was no time for diplomacy.”

Volpe chuckled. “Indeed.”

“Don’t ‘indeed’ me, have you ever even read Titus Livy?”

No—but he had watched his _tesoro_ read it by the dying light of the fire while they lay in bed together, fallen in love all over again while Niccolò smiled to himself and scratched comments in the margins of every single page.  Anything that could make the young man smile like that was well worth saving, in Volpe’s opinion.

“Anyway,” Machiavelli said, still ruffled, checking the spine of the book to make sure it hadn’t been damaged, “I’ll see you tonight. I’m going back to work.”

Volpe perked up. “Can I come?”

“No.”

“Damn.”

But Niccolò did let Gilberto accompany him to the front doors of the Palazzo Vecchio, and though neither would risk a kiss in public, gave his hand a gentle squeeze before he left.


	7. Ghosts

Niccolò Machiavelli awoke very suddenly and lay still, blinking in the darkness  of his bed chamber. He wasn’t sure what had woken him. The living space provided for all the Signori directly adjoined their offices, but the Palazzo Vecchio was still and silent. He adjusted his pillow and was just nodding off again when the man curled against him kneed him in the small of his back.

“ _Ow_!” Machiavelli wriggled away from Volpe with a huff. “Gilberto, _stop_.”

The thief stilled again, his arm tightening around his lover’s waist. Niccolò sighed and closed his eyes. A few quiet moments passed, but then Volpe shuddered, the tiniest of groans leaving his mouth. Niccolò sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and winced when Volpe’s grip on his hip turned almost painful.

“Gilberto?” He slid a hand into the thief’s dark curls, blinking when Volpe flinched away from the touch, his eyelids fluttering. “Hey—Gilberto—wake up.” Niccolò leaned over his older lover, pushing his hair back from his face. “Shh, _amore_ , it’s alright—you’re having a nightmare.”

Volpe whined, pressing his face into his pillow, his breath coming in low, sharp gasps. He was mumbling to himself, hands tightening in the sheets, releasing, tightening again, like he was scrabbling for purchase. Niccolò leaned over him and lit the nearest taper, filling the room with soft firelight, and gave Volpe a firm shake.

“Gilberto!”

The thief finally jerked awake with a loud grunt, his violet eyes wild, and sat up so fast he nearly knocked Niccolò’s face with the back of his head. Niccolò reached for him, took Volpe’s face in his hands and soothed him with soft murmurs.

“Nn—what—”

“It’s me.” Niccolò ran his hands through Volpe’s hair, searching his pale, panic-stricken face. “Gilberto, it’s me. You’re alright—you were dreaming.”

Volpe blinked at him. He looked like a frightened animal. “Dreaming.”

“Yes. A nightmare.”

The thief blinked twice more, and a little color began to return to his face. With a low, shaky sigh, he leaned forward and rested his head against Niccolò’s shoulder, let the younger man pull him close and hold him.

“Hey…”

“No,” Volpe murmured, his voice muffled by his lover’s shirt. “Please. I don’t want to talk about it.” His arms tightened so minutely that Niccolò almost thought he imagined it. Volpe trembled against him. “I love you. Please tell me you know that I love you.”

Niccolò frowned, smoothing a hand through Volpe’s dark curls. "I know, Gilberto."

“I’m not afraid of being with you. They can burn me if they want. I love you.”

“Shh, it’s alright. You’re safe. We’re safe.” Niccolò coaxed him into lying down, kept a hand anchored in Volpe’s hair, knew that the touch would reassure him, help him anchor himself again. “Go back to sleep.”

“Don’t go anywhere.”

“I won’t. You know I won’t.” Niccolò blew out the taper and lay down beside his lover, wrapping his arms around him and pressing slow kisses to the back of his neck. He held Gilberto until his trembling ceased, and for a little longer afterward, just to feel the weight and warmth of his beloved's body against his own.


	8. Proposal

“Marry me.”

Machiavelli glanced up from his work, arching a slim eyebrow. “I’m sorry?”

“Marry me,” Volpe repeated. He got up from the windowsill and circled his lover’s desk, lifting Niccolò’s chin. “Be mine until the day I die.”

“I’m not in favor of belonging to anyone for any amount of time, and I don’t think that the pope is quite willing to see us become man and—man. Even if we weren’t currently working to dethrone him.”

Volpe cracked a grin. “The correct answer was ‘yes.’ Accompanied, preferably, by the removal of all of your clothing and the perching of your ass upon this desk so that I might take you forthwith.”

“I’m sure.” Shaking his head, Niccolò bent back over his desk. “Was there anything else?”

“If we could be married, would you marry me?”

“I’m not overwhelmingly enthusiastic about the concept of marriage itself—”

“Niccolò,” Volpe sighed. “If you must know, sometimes your patented blend of condescension and emotional distance does not make me feel very confident about our relationship, and sometimes I just need to hear that you care for me.”

A silence—and then Niccolò looked up at him, his mouth creased into a hard frown. “Why didn’t you just lead with that?” He got to his feet, seized Volpe by the front of his shirt, and pulled him in for a crushing kiss. It was over too soon, before Volpe could even taste his tongue, and Machiavelli dropped his mouth to his lover’s neck, sucking bruises into his skin.

“I love you.” His tone was low, reverent, his eager bites turning to soft kisses against Volpe’s throat. The thief stilled, his breath catching in his chest; gentleness wasn’t something he often felt from Machiavelli. “Gilberto, I love you. If I am condescending, it’s because I believe that you are enough my equal to contest me. If I am distant, it’s because I trust that you love me enough not to leave.” He drew back a little, taking the thief’s face in his hands. “But I know I behave poorly. I know I don’t behave as a lover should, and for that I’m sorry.” His mouth twitched upward into a smile. “And yes—if I could marry you, I would.”

Volpe stared at him for several long, breathless seconds, then drew him close. It could have been for mere moments that they kissed, or hours. It didn’t matter. Volpe bid his anxieties farewell—not forever, he was sure, but for now.

Niccolò broke away for air, resting his head against Volpe’s shoulder, his arms encircling the older man’s waist. Volpe held him, smoothed a hand through his lover’s short hair.

“I’m going to buy you a ring.”

Machiavelli chuckled. “Please don’t.”

“I’m going to.”

“ _Don’t_ , Gilberto.”

“Going to,” the thief repeated, and pulled Florence’s second chancellor in for another long, lingering kiss, relishing Machiavelli's smile against his mouth.

 

 


	9. Homecoming

La Volpe shifted his weight from one foot to the other, resisting the urge to gnaw on his nails (which drove Machiavelli half crazy). The sun was starting its final descent toward the horizon, painting the Tuscan countryside blood red and brilliant orange. He could have sworn—sworn—he’d seen a cloud of dust in the distance scarcely an hour ago. He glanced heavenward at the first stars of the evening. Didn’t much fancy the idea of sleeping in a stable outside the city walls, but like hell he was going to risk missing his beloved’s return.

A sound reached his ears—a rhythmic thudding. Hooves. His stomach jumped, and he climbed up on top of the stable, heart in his throat. He scanned the road leading into Florence, and relief filled his veins and quickened his pulse when he caught sight of a large chestnut mare barreling toward the gate, her rider leaned down low over her neck, urging her onward.

Volpe dropped to the ground and began to jog down the road, unable to wait any longer. Nine months was too damn long to be without his boy. He’d known Germany was far away, but he hadn’t known how far until Machiavelli left.

The horse cantered to a halt, snorting and tossing her mane, and her rider swung down from the saddle, stumbling a little on the dismount. Volpe broke into a sprint, catching the younger man up in his arms just as Machiavelli wobbled and his legs began to give.

“I’ve got you.” Volpe held him close, breathless, rocked him back and forth. He couldn’t believe it, didn’t dare… “Niccolò. Oh, God, _Niccolò_.” His lover’s name tasted honeyed in his mouth.

Machiavelli trembled with fatigue, but his grip was iron around Volpe’s back. “I’m back.”

Volpe laughed shakily, cradling the younger man’s head against his shoulder. “So you are. Welcome home, _tesoro_.”

“Holy Christ, I missed that.”

“ _Tesoro_.” Volpe sank to his knees, and Machiavelli went down with him, too tired to stay upright. “ _Tesoro. Carissimo. Anima._ ”

Niccolò cupped Volpe’s neck, the leather of his gloves rough against the thief’s skin, and pulled him in for a kiss, moaned when their lips met. Volpe sighed against him, held his lover flush to his own body. Nine months of chastity and celibacy had left him raw and aching with want, desperate for the taste of Niccolò’s mouth, his flesh, the soft, pleasured whimpers he made when Volpe touched him just so. He had missed his boy so dearly, missed the warmth of his body at night, the mumbling  in his sleep, his irritated ranting about politicians and useless rulers, the swelling tides of his lust and love. And that smile, always that smile, wry and knowing and gentle, even when those grey eyes glinted with mischief and mirth.

Volpe half dragged and half carried the weary ambassador back to the stable, dropped him in the nearest pile of hay before putting up the horse. Machiavelli was already falling asleep when he returned, sluggishly trying to wriggle out of his mud-caked riding cloak. Volpe hushed him with soft murmurs, unbuckling the clasps and pushing them apart, his body tightening with want at the sight of his lover’s open tunic. Biting his lip, the thief reached for him, ran his hands over Machiavelli’s chest and shoulders, shuddered at the warmth of his skin, heated and flushed from a hard ride. Niccolò sighed at his touch, arched up into his lover’s hands with a sweet little moan, his eyelids fluttering.

“Gilberto. Take me.”

“You’re so tired, love.”

“Please,” Niccolò mumbled, sliding a hand through Volpe’s hair, exhaling shakily when the thief’s hand brushed his throat. “Please.”

As if the thief could deny him. Volpe reached into Machiavelli’s hose, trailed his fingertips along the underside of the younger man’s shaft and relished Niccolò’s soft, desperate moan, the way his hips hitched upward into the caress.

“Did you touch yourself?” Volpe murmured, running his mouth along the frantic line of Niccolò’s pulse. “Did you make yourself come?”

“At first.” Machiavelli kissed him, tangled their tongues and whimpered against his lover’s mouth when a hand cupped his length, rubbing him, that touch like fire. “But it hurt. Being without you.”

Volpe made a low noise of agreement, pulling Machiavelli’s hose down before shucking his own. He didn’t bring any oil—idiot—but there were other ways to please one’s lover. He was so tight with want, so badly neglected, that Volpe thought he might come just from a kiss.

They shifted and adjusted, fit together so easily that it was almost like they’d never been apart. Volpe lowered his hips, rubbed his swollen length against his lover’s and kissed him, swallowed his stuttered cries as they rocked together. Volpe grasped his cock, rubbed the tip against the younger man’s entrance, smeared his hole and perineum with precum and smiled at the warm blush that spread across Niccolò’s cheeks.

“Gilberto…” Niccolò shuddered, rocked his hips upward when the marble-hard head of Volpe’s cock teased him again. “Please.”

“No. I don’t want to hurt you.” Volpe took them both in hand, let Machiavelli fuck himself into the tight enclosure of his palm and fingers, their swollen members trapped together. “Shh, lie still. Let me take care of you.”

They kissed, a slick, heady meeting of lips and tongues and teeth, and Volpe stroked and pulled until he felt Niccolò tremble against him, felt the anxious clenching of his cock and testes. The thief tightened his hand and squeezed, pumped them from root to tip, and Niccolò came with a choked cry, his lower back bowing hard. Volpe tumbled down after him, grunted and watched sticky streaks of cum decorate his lover’s abdomen. It was like nothing he’d ever felt, a euphoric heat that made him see white, made every inch of his skin crawl with sensation.

He floated for what felt like forever. When he finally came down, his muscles felt like liquid. Niccolò panted quietly against his shoulder, skin slicked with sweat, trailing soft touches up and down Volpe’s sides and chest and ass.

“How did you like it?”

“I’d have liked it a great deal more if you’d done as I asked and just fucked me.”

Volpe chuckled against the warm hollow of the young man’s throat. “Not that. Germany.”

“Oh.” Niccolò paused. “It… had a lot of Germans? And alcohol. I’ve never been so drunk so consistently in my entire life.”

The thief laughed long and hard, delighted by the mental imagery that conjured. Machiavelli was Italian, and a Florentine at that, and as such had been drinking since he was old enough to realize it would upset his parents, but he’d never held his wine well.

Niccolò’s breath steadied, his chest rising and falling beneath Volpe’s head. The thief rolled over onto his side, brushed the hay from the younger man’s hair and pulled him out of his riding cloak. He covered them both with the clean side, drawing his lover into his arms. Machiavelli didn’t kiss him so much as lazily drag his mouth along Volpe’s jaw before he lowered his head onto the thief’s arm and promptly fell asleep.

For a while Volpe laid awake, afraid that he was dreaming, that he would close his eyes and, upon opening them, would find that they were still nine months and hundreds of miles apart, that he was still stuck in Florence while his young lover travelled the world. Volpe propped himself up on an elbow, smoothing the boy’s hair back from his brow. Mm, no—he wasn’t a boy anymore. He’d come back changed, older, harder. More confident. Even Volpe, who knew little of politicians and less of politics, could see that. There was something new and bold in Niccolò Machiavelli’s eyes, fresh strength in his embrace.

Volpe smiled, leaned in and brushed his mouth across his lover’s. The nerve of his boy, going off and becoming a man. What effrontery.


	10. Wound

Niccolò Machiavelli was in a foul mood.

It was a Sunday, for one thing, which meant his sister and father and brother had hassled him all morning about going to church, and looked devastated when he told them he wouldn’t be attending. Biagio and Agostino, however, were attending, leaving Machiavelli alone in his office with four notaries who had endless questions that normally went to his assistants but, in their absence, went straight to him. It took an hour of glowering thunderously at anyone who approached his desk before they realized they ought to figure it out for themselves (like adults). Marcello was also in poor humor, which only made Antonio irritable, and when Antonio was irritable he descended from his spacious office to harass the second chancellor, or whoever was in the second chancellor’s office, which was usually Biagio or Agostino, but again, they were absent, so Machiavelli had seen more of Marcello’s assistant today than he had for the last four months. He’d been grinding his jaw, so his teeth hurt, his hair wouldn’t lie flat, his ass and thighs were raw and bloody from three days’ non-stop riding from Forli, and—and Forli was really the problem here. Caterina Sforza was the goddamn fucking _problem_ here.

He flinched and swore; he’d just clenched his quill so tightly that it snapped, nicking his hand and splattering dark ink all over the document he was drafting. He stuck his hand in his mouth, grimaced at the taste of blood. Caterina had really fucked him over. Really, _really_ fucked him over. He’d been ecstatic to receive the Forli assignment, had figured that getting her to renew her _condotierro_ son’s contract with Florence would be a matter of course. She had greeted him like an old friend—because they _were_ old friends, they had known one another since he was _eighteen_ , for Chrissakes—assured him that they could come to an agreement, and the day he planned to leave, she had thrown in a thousand additions to the contract, requests he couldn’t possibly sanction himself. He wished he could have chased down the courier he’d sent back to Florence with news of  his success, at least, but he had come back to a Signoria ready to congratulate him on a job well done, and he’d come back empty-handed.

Machiavelli frowned down at the cut on his hand. It hurt. His jaw hurt. His ass hurt. His goddamn pride hurt.

“Niccolò?”

He looked up, and his stomach made a funny flipping, twisting motion. La Volpe smiled at him from the doorway, resting his weight languidly against the wall.

“You four,” Machiavelli said, turning his gaze on the notaries. “Out.”

One of them—he couldn’t for the life of him remember any of their names—blinked. “But—sir—”

“ _Out_ ,” he repeated, getting to his feet, and they scattered like leaves in the wind, clambering for the door and pushing past Volpe with muttered apologies.

“You’re too hard on them,” Volpe said, sighing and closing the door.

“Don’t care.” Machiavelli crooked a finger at him. “Come here.”

The thief arched an eyebrow and crossed the room in three easy strides, circling the desk to press a soft kiss to his lover’s mouth. “Good morning. You seem upset.”

Upset didn’t even begin to cover it. Machiavelli pushed Volpe down in his chair, ignoring the thief’s questions, and climbed into the older man’s lap. He wrapped both arms around Volpe’s neck, dropped his head onto his lover’s shoulder, and swallowed thickly.

“Er—Niccolò?” Volpe patted his back. “Are you alright?”

No. “Gilberto.”

“Yes?”

“I need you to shut up, not ask questions, and just sit here and hold me.”

“Oh.” The thief chuckled and wrapped his arms around the younger man, shrugging beneath Niccolò’s weight. “Alright. Happily.” He hugged him tightly. “Do you feel better?’

Much. Infinitely. But like hell he was going to admit it. Niccolò smacked the side of Gilberto’s head and burrowed deeper into his lover’s shoulder, and the thief just laughed.

 

 


	11. Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Niccolò is the saSSIEST THING ON THE PLANET OH MY GOD
> 
> This game, by the way, is called "Too Hot."

“Ready?” Machiavelli grinned, holding his hands in the air, his palms hovering just centimeters from Volpe’s, so close the pads of their fingers nearly brushed.

The thief scowled. “Of course.”

“Ready to lose, I mean.”

“Keep dreaming, boy.” Volpe leaned close and let their mouths brush. The tension carried in the space between their hands was almost palpable.

“Remember, Gilberto,” Niccolò murmured, catching Volpe’s lower lip briefly between his teeth, “no touching.”

“Remind yourself,” Volpe huffed, and captured the younger man’s mouth. Niccolò moaned and returned the kiss eagerly, a devious tongue teasing Volpe’s lips before withdrawing, daring the fox to give chase.

Volpe curled and opened his fingers several times, itching to grab, touch, caress. They’d probably look a little silly to anyone who entered. They sat cross-legged on their bed, hands still raised in the air, leaning forward so they could kiss across the space between them. Volpe didn’t know where Niccolò had picked up this game, but he both hated it and loved it. The rules were simple—they were to kiss until one of them gave in and touched the other. Whoever managed to resist could do whatever he wanted to the loser.

And dammit, Volpe intended to win. He’d been denied far too many public blowjobs to let an opportunity like this go to waste… and in any case, he was absolutely fucking _terrified_ of what Machiavelli might come up with if he won.

Machiavelli’s tongue caressed his, pulling him from his thoughts. Volpe shuddered and closed his eyes. God, but he loved his _tesoro’s_ mouth, warm and soft and slick. He tasted wine on Niccolò’s tongue, a rich red vintage. Volpe growled and deepened their kiss, flexed his jaw open to invade the younger man’s mouth, swallowed the quiet moan he received for his advances.

“Gilberto,” Niccolò murmured when they broke for air, a soft, sweet whisper against his beloved’s lips. “Don’t you want me?”

Volpe’s hair stood on end. Oh, God, not this. He kissed the younger man again, silenced him before those words could draw him in. Machiavelli had prevented wars and toppled campaigns with his words. He could sure as hell get Volpe to touch him.

“Don’t you want to— _mn_ —fuck me?” Machiavelli grinned, dodged a kiss, let Volpe’s mouth land on his jaw. “Don’t you want what’s yours?”

Yes, dammit, _yes_ —no, fight it, resist! Volpe nipped at his lover’s mouth, meshed their lips. A few well-placed bites coaxed the younger man’s mouth open, let Volpe sweep in and plunder him, taste him. Wine and—something else? A cigar, maybe, all of the other Signoria members seemed to like them. Volpe found he liked the taste, smoky and rich and so very like Niccolò.

“Gilberto”—God damn the necessity of breathing!— “don’t you love me?”

Oh, _shit_. Volpe hands were moving before he could stop them, one cupping Niccolò’s jaw and the other grabbing his ass, yanking him closer. Jesus Christ, sweet relief—Volpe pushed the younger man onto his back, rubbed the hard member straining against Niccolò’s hose and panted against his mouth, snarling when his lover's hips rolled, that little moan was _delicious_ —

“Gilberto.”

All motion ceased. Volpe froze, sensed Machiavelli’s shit-eating grin before he lifted his head and saw it. Niccolò’s smirk widened, and he folded his hands behind his head, crossing one leg over the other, looking every bit the pampered prince who has just gotten exactly what his precocious little heart desired.

“You lose.”

Volpe blew out a breath. Shit. “What do you want?”

“Mm.” Machiavelli sat up and trailed a lingering touch along his lover’s jaw. “That’s for me to know…” He leaned forward, kissed the thief very briefly, “and for you, my love, to find out.” He got to his feet and straightened his clothes before exiting their bedchamber, humming tunelessly to himself, while Volpe stared after him in abject terror.

 

 


	12. Judgement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I needed a little more philosophical Machiavelli.
> 
> (And for these boys to do something besides bang and make out)

An hour later, the air still reeked of burning flesh.

Niccolò Machiavelli wasn’t the only one lingering in the Piazza della Signoria, but he felt like the last person on earth. He stood before the pyre, transfixed, watched the last little flames licking at the dead monk’s charred feet and robes. There wasn’t much left of Girolamo Savonarola; what did remain was little more than a few chunks of burnt meat on white bone.

Someone approached from Machiavelli’s left side, but he didn’t move. Marcello Adriani heaved a deep sigh, tucking his hands behind his back and frowning up at the body mounted upon the pyre.

“Terrible business, public execution.”

Machiavelli didn’t respond. He didn’t have anything to say. Marcello harrumphed and continued.

“You did well. The city wasn’t about to move forward with that madman running our government.”

“But they chose him.”

“What?”

“The Florentines. The people.” Machiavelli looked at his friend. “They chose Savonarola.”

“Yes, perhaps, but at what cost? Did they even realize what they were giving up? Religion is the opiate of the masses, Machia. It poisons the mind. Robs men of their will.”

Savonarola _was_ their will. The people chose their poison. And wasn’t that the point of a republic—that, for better or for worse, the people were allowed to choose? He tried to remind himself of the Apple. No, in the end, it had only been Savonarola’s will. But he hadn’t started out that way. His followers chose that man to lead them. The Apple was just a means to an end.

Marcello patted him on the shoulder. “It’s done, Machia. Put it behind you. Focus on the good that’s come of this.” He smiled. “For instance—welcome to the Signoria.”

The new first chancellor walked away toward the Palazzo Vecchio, humming to himself, leaving Machiavelli with mourning piagnoni and Savonarola’s charred remains.

_vanities sodomites sin judgement_

_Sodomites._

Was that it? Had he become too sensitive to Savonarola’s rhetoric, let the man’s words eat through the cool armor of logic, let his anger at persecution drive him to butchery?

_judgement justification._

_A means to an end._

_Welcome to the Signoria._

“Niccolò?”

Machiavelli blinked, frowning up at la Volpe’s handsome visage. “What the…” He looked around. It had gotten dark; Savonarola’s body had been cut down, leaving an empty pyre. “What the hell?”

“You must have lost consciousness.” Volpe frowned, touched a hand to his forehead. “You’re a little warm. What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I was… talking with Marcello. I don’t remember what time.” Niccolò sat up, rubbing his temples. He felt like someone had taken a hammer to the inside of his skull. “What are you doing here?”

“You were the only one who didn’t come back to the hideout.” Volpe offered him a cautious grin. “I didn’t think you’d ever forgive me if I let you miss a party.”

“A party?”

“Right. We’re celebrating. You know—we’ve reclaimed the Apple, Savonarola’s gone, Florence is free—I think it calls for a glass or two of wine, don’t you?” Volpe pulled off his cloak and tossed it around his lover’s shoulders. “You don’t seem… well.”

Machiavelli shrugged, pressed his face into the cloak. It smelled like Gilberto. Brisk, dusty. Just a hint of lemon. Orange? Some kind of citrus. Whatever it was, it was soothing.

“Gilberto?”

“Hm?”

“I’m not… convinced we did the right thing.”

Volpe quirked his head and took a seat, wrapping an arm around Niccolò’s shoulders. The piazza was empty save for a few drunks and enamored lovers, and in any case, they probably wouldn’t be the only sodomites gallivanting about the streets tonight. “How do you mean?”

“We drove the city to execute Savonarola. We broke their faith.” Machiavelli shivered, but it had nothing to do with the chill in the air. “They burned him _alive_ , Gilberto.”

“Mm. A needless show of cruelty, to be sure.” Volpe picked at a bit of straw stuck to the cloak. “What could we have done differently?”

“I don’t… I don’t know. Savonarola had this city in a vice. But they turned to him, didn’t they? After the Medici fell, after the French invaded… they _chose_ Savonarola. Were we really right to take that choice from them? To turn them against one another?”

“ _Tesoro_.” Volpe pulled him close, kissed his temple. “If Savonarola had risen to power purely on his own merits, we never would have stepped in. We fought against him because he used the Apple. His influence corrupted him. He became impatient. He didn’t trust the people to carry on his ideals.” The thief tightened his grip around Machiavelli’s shoulders. “He betrayed them, Niccolò. If his beliefs were sound and good, then he would have won out eventually.”

“'Eventually' isn’t always good enough. Not when a whole city clamors for change.”

“Perhaps. But the answer is never to strip them of their will. They gave Savonarola their blessing to lead them to a better world, but they never gave him permission to sabotage their minds.”

Machiavelli glanced at him. “Then it all comes down to the Apple?”

“Doesn’t it always?” Volpe asked, snorting. “It’s good you’ve taken this to heart, _tesoro_. We have to question ourselves constantly. That’s how we stay true to our creed.”

Niccolò made a soft noise of assent and rested his head against Volpe’s shoulder. “Savonarola would have seen us burned on that pyre.”

“He did hate the assassins.”

“He hated sodomites more.”

“Oh! I’d nearly forgotten about that.” Volpe smiled, brushed his mouth across the younger man’s brow. “I’ll gladly cut down any man who tries to keep me from you.”

Machiavelli rolled his eyes. “I’m sure.”

“Are you feeling well enough to go join the others?”

“Yes.” Niccolò sucked in a breath, tipped his head back to look at the stars. “No. Not yet. Will you stay here with me a little longer?”

Volpe replied without hesitation. “Of course.” He pulled his lover closer, laced their fingers together beneath the cloak. They sat together in silence, watching the last little embers on the pyre die out.


	13. Close

His breath came in hard, fast gasps, little knife pricks in his lungs. He looked over his shoulder, swore when he caught sight of their pursuers and upped his speed, ignoring the screaming of his muscles.

“God fucking _dammit_! Gilberto!”

Volpe looked back at him, his face flushed, hood bouncing on his shoulders. “Hell, they’re persistent today!”

Machiavelli groaned, vaulted over the railing of a ceiling garden and kicked over a table laden with plants. One of the guards tripped over it, hitting the rooftop with a crunch, but his cohorts leapt over the mess and landed with flawless grace.

The Florentine ambassador ground his teeth. Of course the pope had hired better _condotierri_ to guard the rooftops. Actually, this was probably all Cesare’s doing. Well played, Borgia.

Something whizzed past Machiavelli’s ear. He risked a glance over his shoulder and sighed. “They’ve got a crossbow!”

“A what?”

“A fucking _crossbow_!”

Volpe scrambled up the side of a building and reached down to grab Machiavelli’s hand, hauling him up, and paused to drop a handful of caltrops on the landing below before they took off again. The bowman was finding his rhythm; a bolt hit the roof where Machiavelli’s left foot had been a moment before, sending a spray of shattered tile biting at the back of his legs.

“We should split up,” Volpe said—he finally sounded a little winded, which irked Machiavelli to no end. “Whoever they don’t chase can double back and start picking them off—”

“Don’t, that’s what they want—we can lose them.”

“How many?”

Sucking in lungfuls of air, Machiavelli looked back. “Six.”

Volpe brightened. “Hey, that’s not so—”

Machiavelli heard a dull thud, then the alien sound of Volpe’s boots hitting the roof unevenly in a stumble. Something sick settled in his stomach. He looked to his right, almost blinded by bright sunlight, saw the dark shaft of a bolt protruding from Volpe’s back just before he lost his footing and tumbled sideways off the roof.

Machiavelli skidded to a halt, panting, and stared at the spot where Volpe fell in stunned disbelief. _Fell_. He fell. Gilberto fell?

“Stop— _assassino_!”

Sharp pain lanced through his calf. He kicked the bolt free without looking at it, shut down the instinct to collapse, curl up, run away, anything to protect himself. The guards were upon him, bearing down on him with swords raised. Six on one, and he was wounded, and Gilberto fucking fell, and yet Machiavelli didn’t feel afraid. He only heard white noise, instinct taking over, guided him through motions he’d done a thousand times, a hundred thousand times.

He took care of the bowman first, because it was the bowman who’d hurt Gilberto. Inexcusable. The guards were fast, but their armor was minimal, negligible even. His blade bit into them, tore through them. They couldn’t land a blow on him, even with his injured leg. They’d been to battle, to war, but they’d never stood against an assassin.

The last one fell, clutching his throat, trying to speak around a mouthful of blood. Machiavelli didn’t wait for them to die, didn’t bother to confer a blessing. He climbed down the building as quickly as he could, dropping the last ten feet and biting down a cry when he thought his leg would shatter.

A crowd had gathered, forming a ring in the middle of the street, murmuring in anxious voices. He pushed through them, ignoring affronted shouts and glares, stumbled into the middle. His breath froze in his chest, formed a vice around his heart.

“G-Gilberto?”

No response. He fell to his knees at the thief’s side, reached a trembling hand out to touch his lover’s dark hair. Volpe lay on his side, eyes closed. He might have been asleep save for the eerie stillness of his body. Swallowing thickly, Machiavelli bent down and pressed his head to Volpe’s chest, closed his eyes. Please. _Please_.

There—so faint, so weak, but it was a heartbeat nonetheless.

He gathered Volpe’s broken form in his arms and staggered to his feet. They were close to Tiber Island. If he could just make it across the river…

He realized after ten steps that he was in agony. The bolt had gone deep, broken when he kicked the shaft. He could feel his muscles tearing, bones grinding against the tip. The bolt that had struck Volpe was still lodged in his back, between his shoulder blade and spine, but Machiavelli didn’t dare remove it.

“Hold on,” he murmured, speaking against Volpe’s sweat-soaked curls. “Gilberto, hold on.”

The bridge, thank God, was mostly empty. A few people saw him coming, carrying what must have looked like a corpse, and hurried on their way. Volpe stirred feebly, released a low moan. His body trembled.

Machiavelli missed a step, stumbled a little, and the pain in his leg burned white-hot, made darkness gather at the corners of his vision. He staggered, fell against the bridge’s side, fighting to stay upright, conscious—if he didn’t get to the hideout, Gilberto would—Gilberto would—

“Easy, lad.”

Hands caught him before he fell. Bartolomeo’s bearded visage appeared before him, a frown on his features. Ezio was at his shoulder.

“Take la Volpe. Get him to the hideout. I’ve got Machiavelli.”

Bartolomeo nodded, bent to take the wounded thief in his arms. Machiavelli held on, unwilling to let go, and Ezio grasped his wrists and gently broke his grip.

“No,” Niccolò mumbled, his vision swimming, heart wrenching when Bartolomeo turned and took off at a run. “ _No_ —Gilberto—”

“Come on.” Ezio wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him up, took his weight with ease. “Carefully, now.”

“Gilberto—”

“He’ll be fine. We’ll meet them there.”

“If he dies—if he dies, I can’t—I won’t—”

“No one is dying today. Lean on me.”

But he was tired, so tired. His muscles felt leaden, his leg would be better off removed than left attached, the pain was so intense. He felt consciousness escaping him, tightened his grip around Ezio’s shoulders to warn him, and then the world went dark.

\---

 

He felt so heavy. Warm, but heavy. He heard a fire, a merry crackling, smelled the bitter tang of red wine. Something cool touched his forehead. The hideout, then. If he wasn’t dead, then he and Gilberto had—

Gilberto.

Machiavelli jolted awake, sitting up so fast he almost swooned, and grabbed the woman sitting at his bedside to stay upright.

“Hey—Niccolò—shh, you’re safe, it’s alright.”

He blinked at her, struggling to see between his blurry vision and the dim lighting. “...Caterina?”

The duchess of Milan cracked a grin, smoothing a hand over his hair. “Right. How do you feel?”

He swallowed, nodding his thanks when she handed him a cup of water and drank for several long seconds, let the coldness sharpen his awareness. “Like hell. Where’s Gi—Volpe?”

She nodded toward the opposite wall. His heart leapt into his throat, and he whirled around, releasing a strangled moan at the sight of his lover lying prone on the cot beside his. Ignoring Caterina’s protests, he swung himself out of bed, staggering to Volpe’s side and sinking onto the cot, pressing his ear to the thief’s chest. Still there. Gilberto was still there.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Niccolò—you’re not well, you should—”

He turned on her, his voice shaking. “What’s wrong with him?!”

Caterina frowned. “The bolt missed his heart, but the wound is deep. He’s broken several ribs, his collar, and his right leg.”

Machiavelli tightened a hand in Volpe’s shirt, struggling to anchor himself to reality, to this hellish nightmare into which he’d fallen. “Is he… will he…”

“If he makes it through tonight, he should live.”

Tonight. If he made it through tonight. Machiavelli looked down at the older man, swallowing around the constriction of his throat, and smoothed a hand into Volpe’s hair.

“Niccolò?”

Oh, fuck. He withdrew his hand, clasped his palms together in his lap, casting his mind around for an explanation for his behavior. Nothing, he had nothing. He lifted his gaze, meet Caterina’s across the room, and looked back down at his feet.

“Oh,” she said, her voice small and quiet. He heard her rise, the shuffling of her skirts as she stepped toward him, and her arms went around his shoulders, pulling him close. “Oh, Niccolò. I’m so sorry, darling.”

“I love him.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know.”

He closed his eyes, let Caterina hold him, let the tears fall. It felt so good to admit to it, to put words to the ache that perpetually twisted up his heart. It wasn’t exactly a secret, but he and Gilberto never held one another where prying eyes might see, never so much as shared a touch when Ezio or Bartolomeo or the novices were around. They maintained a cool, professional distance. And it hurt. It hurt so much.

“... _Tesoro_ …?”

Machiavelli whirled around, choked out something between a laugh and a sob when Volpe reached for him. He caught his lover’s hand, held it to his chest. “Gilberto.”

“What…?”

“You fell.” Niccolò smiled shakily, lacing their fingers together. “You were shot and then you fell, you colossal idiot.”

“I never fall,” Volpe said, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “What effrontery.”

Machiavelli chuckled and leaned forward, resting his head against Gilberto’s shoulder. “I love you.” He heard the door open and close and thanked Caterina silently. “Don’t you ever do something like this again.”

“Right.” Volpe coughed. “Never again. I shall inform every guard in the city that I am too precious to be hurt.”

Machiavelli made to smack him, tempered his irritation at the last second and tapped his palm against Gilberto’s head. “Idiot.”

“Mm. Come here and kiss me.”

Niccolò sighed and lifted his head, indulging Gilberto’s request with a soft murmured nothing against his mouth.

 

 


	14. Tryst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for unapologetic porn and cute.

 

Niccolò couldn’t breathe. His head swam, his vision blurred, his lungs screamed. The hand clasped around his mouth drew back for just a moment, let him gulp for air before pressing down again.

“ _Tesoro_.” Volpe’s teeth tugged at his ear, the endearment a hot whisper against his flesh. He drew his hips back and then snapped them forward, burying himself in his lover’s body, his palm muffling Niccolò’s cry.

He had begun covering the boy’s mouth out of necessity, so that his sleeping family wouldn’t hear them, but the dynamic of power it introduced to their bedplay was interesting. Niccolò found it relaxing to surrender his control, and Volpe relished the boy’s trust in him. And even though Niccolò had asked, Volpe couldn’t find it in him to wrap a hand around his beloved’s throat. He liked feeling the younger man’s breath on his palm, the desperate flexing of his jaw when his cries were stifled.

Niccolò writhed against a deep thrust, his hands knotting the sheets. Volpe winced when the boy clenched down on him, rubbing a soothing hand over the tight muscles of Niccolò’s lower back and down to his ass.

“Does it hurt?”

Niccolò shook his head urgently, hitching his ass backward into Volpe’s hips. He tried to speak, but could do little more than mumble helplessly against the thief’s hand.

“Shh, love, I’ve got you.” Volpe released the boy’s thigh and grasped his cock, pulling on him gently, relishing Niccolò’s sweet little whimpers. He parted his fingers, let Niccolò draw in a few lungfuls of air. “Say my name.”

“ _Mn_ —G-Gilberto—”

The thief smiled and covered his mouth again. “Good boy.”

He ceased his thrusting for a moment to listen, ignoring Niccolò’s growl of protest. No approaching footsteps, no sounds of restless sleepers. How he had managed to fuck his lover in his own home for a year without getting caught was a mystery to him. Satisfied that they would remain undisturbed, he rocked back into the boy’s body with a low sigh. Every roll of his hips was almost casual, unhurried, drawing out their coupling. His former affairs had involved a great deal of rough, impatient rutting, desperate races to his finish. It was different when he was with this boy. He cherished every moment they spent intertwined, liked going slow so he could spend as much time inside his lover as possible. Niccolò claimed it drove him almost to madness, but there was no hiding how hard he came when Volpe took his time.

But they’d been at this for—what, an hour? Niccolò’s cock was hard as marble, trapped between his abdomen and the bed. He’d been close to coming thrice now, and every time Volpe had denied him. The thief hummed, stroked a thumb over the weeping tip and felt a shudder wrack the young man’s body.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, dropping his mouth to the back of Niccolò’s neck, tasting him. “I’m going to let you come. Let it go, love.”

Niccolò ground back against him, grasping Volpe’s arm and pulling at it urgently—out of air. Volpe removed his hand, waited while the boy coughed and gasped before leaning down to kiss him soundly, swallowing his moans. Hot cum filled his hand. He stroked the young man through his climax, grunting and spilling unexpectedly when Niccolò clenched down around him. They shook together for several long moments, gasping into one another’s mouths, struggling to stay quiet.

Volpe breathed a sigh against the boy’s shoulder, arched his hips back to withdraw his aching member. He lowered a hand to rub Niccolò’s entrance, dipped his fingers inside briefly to check that he wasn’t hurt. It had been a month since they’d been together, and it didn’t take long for a young buck’s body to tighten. He stroked the boy’s prostate, smiling when Niccolò whimpered and jerked against him.

“You want to come again?”

“Not so soon,” Niccolò laughed, breathless, but he arched his hips up into Volpe’s touch and ground down against his fingers. “It feels good, though.” He tugged the thief in for a slow kiss, plundering the older man’s mouth with his tongue. Volpe let him have control, running a hand through the boy’s dark hair.

“I have to go, _tesoro_.”

“Don’t. Stay with me tonight.”

“If your mother found me, she would have me  hanged, shot, and drawn and quartered.”

Niccolò rolled his eyes. “You forgot burned at the stake.”

Volpe chuckled and kissed him again. “But I love you and miss you already. Every moment away from you is as painful as a slow death. Every moment you’re not in my arms is—”

“Alright, alright,” Niccolò snorted, pushing on the thief’s shoulder. “Go already.”

The older man quirked an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

Niccolò sighed, petulant. “ _And_ I love you.”

“That’s more like it.” Volpe patted his ass and swung himself off the bed, tucking his softening length back into his hose. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Ponte Vecchio, at noon.” Niccolò yawned, rolling onto his back and pillowing his arms beneath his head, sated and comfortable. “I’ll bring food.”

Volpe grinned and bent to give him one last kiss. “That’s my boy.”


	15. Wake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Partly an apology for shooting Volpe and then knocking him off a roof, partly because I wanted to write some more about cantarella. Stupid and fluffy at the end, don't care.

In general, Volpe was happy to see Biagio Buonaccorsi. The young man was cheerful and good-natured, and adored Niccolò Machiavelli and the ground he walked on. He was a good man and a good friend, loyal almost to a fault, and Volpe liked him. They ran into one another around town frequently—Biagio ran errands constantly—and their brief conversations were a pleasure.

Volpe was, therefore, genuinely happy to hear that Biagio had stopped by the hideout he kept right behind the Palazzo Vecchio, until his underling brought Biagio in to see him. Volpe froze halfway out of his chair, eyes widening.

“Buonaccorsi—what in God’s name—”

Biagio was shaking, his face drained of all color, his eyes glistening with barely repressed tears. He tried to speak and made an odd choking noise, swallowing before he could continue.

“Machia’s…” He pressed a hand to his mouth and shook his head, tears spilling down his cheeks when he squeezed his eyes closed.

Something sick and cold fell into Volpe’s stomach. He got to his feet and crossed the room in three long strides, grasping Biagio by the shoulders.

“Take me to him.”

 

Volpe was used to a certain level of noise and energy in the Palazzo Vecchio. The Priori mostly kept to their lush offices, but the Signori were a lively bunch, constantly in motion, more likely to jump into heated debates than get any actual work done. The doors were always open, letting members of the public (and every Florentine was really a politician) flit in and out at will. Tonight, however, Biagio had to show his credentials to guards at the door before they were admitted. The Palazzo was almost silent save for a hum in the air, tense whispers that didn’t quite fill the empty hallways.

Biagio more staggered than walked up the stairs, seeming close to fainting, and stood back to let Volpe into the first chancellor’s office ahead of him. The thief entered slowly, his feet full of lead. Most of the Signori had crowded into the room, clustered around the back wall, all pale-faced and quiet. Volpe heard a dull thudding sound, rhythmic. He pushed his way between a few notaries and fought his way to the center of the cluster.

He knew, somehow, what he’d see before he saw it. They just had too many enemies, the assassins and the Signoria both. Italy was a nest of vipers, full of men who would stop at nothing to achieve their ends, men who absolutely had to be stopped. That was all well and good for Volpe and Ezio and the assassins who worked under cover of darkness, whose names and faces were a mystery to most of their targets. Not so for those members of the brotherhood who were forced to operate in the public sector,  for Claudia or Bartolomeo—or Machiavelli.

So Volpe wasn’t surprised when he pushed past the stock-still Agostino and found his _tesoro_ sprawled on the floor with blood rimming his eyes and spilling from his mouth. Marcello knelt at his side, pounding a fist against the younger man’s chest and snarling under his breath.

“Help me!” he shouted, casting a furious glare around at the stunned Signori. “Stop standing there and _help me_ , dammit!” He looked down at his friend and protege, sucking in a shaking breath. “Machia! _Niccolò_! Say something—God damn you, _say something_!”

Volpe knees stung when they hit the ground. He planted both hands on the floor, holding himself steady, trying to anchor himself to the earth. There was a bottle on the ground, shattered, dark wine seeping into the expensive Venetian rug. Volpe didn’t see the cantarella powder—it mixed in seamlessly with wine and water, that was why it was every poisoner's favorite—but he knew it was there, clinging to every drop, a deadly promise.

Agostino stepped forward and dropped to his knees at Marcello’s side, wincing at a sharp crack when Marcello’s fist came down—one of Niccolò’s ribs had broken.

“Marcello. Stop.” He grasped the older man’s arm. “Please…”

“Get off! Has someone called for a doctor?!”

“Marcello—”

“I said get off!” Marcello shoved him away. “Machia!”

Antonio della Valle—the first chancellor’s assistant—sank into the nearest chair and lowered his face into his hands. He began to rock back and forth, murmuring Our Father’s under his breath, crossing himself at intervals. Volpe thought, dimly, that it was a little ironic, almost a little funny. Niccolò would be personally offended over anyone praying for him.

“Machia.” Marcello finally stopped striking Niccolò’s chest, pushing the young man’s hair off his forehead with a trembling hand. “No. No, no, no, God, no. Please. _Please_. Someone…” He lowered his head, resting it against Niccolò’s chest, his shoulders shaking. “Fuck. _Fuck_!”

Volpe looked around the room, observing the ashen faces, listening to the queer silence. He suspected that, at any moment now, he’d be waking up. This couldn’t, after all, be real. Impossible. Illogical. He dug his nails into his palm, winced at the sharp pain. Now, please. _Please_ , before this got any worse.

Agostino sat back on his heels, tilted his head to look at one of the Signori. “Send someone to Oltrarno. Margherita and Totto need to know.” And then he wrapped his arms around himself and buried his face in his knees, breath hitching with loud, low sobs.

Wake up. Volpe bit into his wrist, drew blood. Wake _up_. Wake the fuck up.

Last night. They had made love last night, kissed slowly and gently, and Niccolò had been so warm and so loving and so beautiful, his grey eyes darkened with want, made stormy in the light of the fire—

Fire.

Volpe lifted his head, fixed his gaze on a brazier on the wall. He had learned this from Niccolò, actually, when one of Claudia’s girls was poisoned. They had been in a panic, distraught, held the poor girl down while she seized and flailed, and Niccolò had poured water on a brazier, taken a handful of charcoal and crammed it down the girl’s throat until she vomited—

The thief scrambled to his feet, pushed his way through the grieving Signori and snatched a bottle of wine off a desk. He poured it out in the brazier, trying to steady his hands, knocked it to the ground in the process. No matter. He dipped a hand into the mess, scooped up a black, slimy mass and hurried back. He didn’t bother to speak, shoved Marcello away—the first chancellor curled up against the nearest desk and didn’t move.

“Agostino.” Volpe shook the younger man’s shoulder. “Agostino! Help me!”

The second chancellor’s assistant lifted his head. “Wh—”

“Open his mouth. Just do it!”

Flummoxed, the young man did as he was told, swallowing a sob as he pulled Niccolò’s jaw open. Volpe steadied himself with a breath, averting his gaze from the blood on Niccolò’s face, on his eyelashes, and pushed the clot of charcoal into his mouth, down to the back of his throat.

“More.” He pointed directly at one of the notaries, a boy he recognized from Niccolò’s office. “More, dammit! It absorbs the poison!”

The boy jumped and hurried to pick up the brazier, grunting as he dragged it over. Volpe grabbed another handful, crammed his fingers down his beloved’s throat, ignoring the nausea curdling his stomach. A minute passed—four handfuls—and suddenly Niccolò spasmed, retching. Volpe rolled him onto his side, choking on something between a sob and a shout when the younger man vomited and then began to cough.

Marcello opened his eyes, then slid sideways in a dead faint.

 

“We’ve redoubled the guard, and we have tasters for all the wine and food, which is being brought directly from the Scala farm in Percussina. The Signori have been asked not to leave the Palazzo until the poisoner has been caught, and an official request has been sent to Forli for _condotierri_ to put on the city gates.” Marcello tapped his quill against his list, biting his lower lip. “Am I forgetting anything?”

“No. Those are good precautions.” Ezio, summoned from Rome, nodded his head. “Put them in place immediately. I’ll put some of my men on the doors, as well.”

“Good, thank you.” Marcello hesitated, looking at the older man with obvious apprehension. “And you are—who, again?”

“Just a friend, Chancellor.” Ezio clapped him on the shoulder. “Thank you for your hard work.”

Volpe lowered his eyes from their exchange, occupying himself with stroking a hand through Niccolò’s dark hair. He hadn’t left his lover’s sickbed for two days and two nights, had scarcely slept or even been able to do much but sit there, reaffirming every few minutes that Niccolò was still breathing. Biagio and Agostino had made a bed for the second chancellor in his office, then left Volpe to care for him, understood without needing to be told that Volpe couldn’t stand to have anyone else so close while Niccolò fought for his life. The young man didn’t look anywhere approaching healthy, but at least Volpe had managed to clean most of the blood from his face, washed it from his lips and teeth and dark lashes. Every now and again Niccolò began to cough, bringing up more; the doctor informed Volpe that cantarella burned the throat and stomach, shredded the vessels of the blood in the nose and eyes. He’d keep bleeding for a while yet.

“Volpe.” Ezio rejoined him by the bed, touching his back. “You need to rest. Let me watch over him awhile.” Volpe shook his head. The assassin sighed and took a seat, pushing back his hood and running a hand over his eyes. “The doctor says your trick with the charcoal saved him. Bought him time.”

“It’s his trick. He saved himself.”

“No one but you knew to take action. If he wakes, he’ll live, and it’s because of you.”

“He almost _died_ because of me.” Volpe turned a glare on Ezio, fire licking at his insides. “Because of you. Because of the fucking brotherhood. Someone meant to see him dead, and that’s our fault.” His voice hitched, his heart in a vice. “I couldn’t protect him.”

“You couldn’t have known this would happen,” Ezio said, grasping his shoulder in one firm hand. “No one could. You saved him, and you’re both here now.”

Volpe didn’t answer. He looked back down at Niccolò’s pale face, brushed his knuckles along the young man’s cheek. Ezio sighed and got to his feet.

“I’m going to check the doors, make sure the guard is sufficient. Try and get some sleep.”

The thief waited until Ezio left before removing his cape and boots. He climbed onto the bed, curled up at Niccolò’s side and wrapped an arm around him, holding him close.

“I’m here.” He didn’t know if Niccolò could hear him and didn’t care. “I’m here, _tesoro_. I won’t go anywhere. I won’t leave you.” He closed his eyes, swallowed around the tight constriction in his throat. “So wake up. Please, please wake up.”

He nodded off at some point, too tired to stay awake any longer. Exhaustion and grief turned his bones to stone, made his head too heavy to raise. The room was dark when he lifted his lids; someone—Ezio, most likely—had covered him with a blanket. Niccolò’s body was still and cool against his. Volpe readjusted, tightening his grip on his beloved and releasing a low sigh, rubbing his eyes.

He froze—he could have sworn he heard something. Hardly daring to believe, he lifted his head, blinking down at his lover in the dark. Again—a low mumble, so faint he could easily have imagined it. Volpe rolled the younger man onto his back, cradled his lover’s face in his hands.

“Niccolò? Can you hear me?”

A pause, and then—

“...Gilberto…?”

Volpe stuttered out a laugh, drew Niccolò into his arms and held him close, sobbed with relief when he felt the younger man suck in a deep lungful of air. “Oh, God. It’s me, _tesoro_. It’s me, I’m here.” He lowered Niccolò back to the pillows, bent down to press kisses to his mouth, didn’t care that he tasted of blood and charcoal. “I thought you wouldn’t wake—I thought for sure I’d—” He couldn’t say _lost you_. He swallowed those words, condemned them.

“I love you.” Niccolò was mumbling, only half coherent, his breath weak and labored. “I love you…”

Volpe nodded, stroking his beloved’s face, tears obscuring his vision. “I know. I love you too.”

“Gilberto—I—”

“Shh. Shh, love, don’t speak. Rest, alright?” Volpe smiled shakily, stroking Niccolò’s hair as he settled back down beside him.  “Just sleep. I’m here.”

Niccolò’s breath quieted; he was out even before Volpe finished speaking, too exhausted to stay awake. Gilberto, however, couldn’t close his eyes again. He lay there in the dark, held the man he loved until dawn broke on the horizon, lit up a night that Volpe thought may never end.

 

 


	16. Sail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Volpe is grumpy and Niccolo is unapologetically adorable.

“Volpe!” Niccolò hurried below-deck, face flushed with excitement, his hair tousled and damp from the brisk wind. “Gilberto, come up here!”

“...Ugh.” Volpe rolled onto his side, squeezing his eyes shut and clutching his abdomen. “Go ‘way…”

“Oh, come on!” The younger man jumped onto his bunk, grinning. “We’re at _sea_! Will you please come to the upper deck and maybe enjoy the experience with me?”

“Let me know when we get to France.”

“We won’t be there for two weeks! Don’t tell me you intend to stay down here the entire time?” He lowered his head and trailed kisses up and down the side of the thief’s neck, whining petulantly when Volpe pushed him off. “ _Gilberto_.”

Volpe growled and tugged his ratty blanket over his head, trying to dissuade his young lover from poking him further. Normally he was the one begging and pleading and trying to drag Niccolò off on adventures; their abrupt role reversal was unnerving. Who’d have thought that Niccolò would have such a taste for sailing?

“Hurry up,” Niccolò said, slapping a hand against the thief’s ass and clambering off his bunk, hurrying back up the rotted staircase.

Sighing, Volpe swung his legs off the cot, taking a moment to steady his quailing stomach before mounting the stairs. He winced the moment his head made contact with the open air. Cold wind whipped across the deck, spraying the crew with sea water. Volpe tugged his hood up, growling his displeasure, and reluctantly climbed on deck.

Hanging from the rigging nearly fifteen foot in the air was his own beloved Machiavelli. The young man was all bright eyes and wide grins, releasing exultant shouts into the wind with every rock of the boat and crash of waves on the bow. Volpe seized the deck railing, leaning against it and closing his eyes, sucking in a lungful of salty air when he thought he may be sick.

“Gilberto! Come up here!”

“ _No_!” Volpe craned his head back, squinting his eyes against the spray and wind. “What the hell are you doing?!”

“Enjoying freedom! Liberty!” Niccolò waved down at him, grinning like a fool. “Man was made for the sea!”

“Man was made for _land_! That’s why we’ve legs and not fins, you idiot!”

Niccolò laughed, scaling the rigging up another ten feet, ignoring Volpe’s panicked requests for him to come down. “Gilberto!”

“What?!”

“Ever fucked in a crows’ nest?!”

Volpe felt his face grow hot, ignoring the sniggering of the crewmen. “ _Of course not_!”

“Would you like to?!”

“Fucking _no_! God dammit—” Volpe cautiously pulled himself up onto the rigging, his stomach heaving, and he closed his eyes tight, drawing in a few steadying breaths before beginning to climb as fast as possible. The ascent took all of two minutes, if that, but it seemed to crawl on into eternity. Gasping, he pulled himself up the mast and toppled into the crows’ nest, clutching his legs to stop his knees from shaking.

“Gilberto.” A hand tipped his chin back, and then Niccolò’s lips were on his, kissing him hungrily, a mischievous tongue delving into his mouth. Volpe moaned into his young lover’s attentions, slipping his hands beneath Machiavelli’s wet clothes.

Niccolò drew back, panting, a goofy smile interrupting a second kiss. “This is fun.”

Volpe sighed. “What is? Fooling around in the crows’ nest?”

“That—and being here, at sea. With you.” Niccolò wound his hands into Volpe’s dark curls, bringing their foreheads together. “Just the two of us.”

“Plus a hundred crewmen?”

“Plus them.” Niccolò shucked his waterlogged boots, straddling Volpe’s lap and slicking his mouth with a third heated kiss. Volpe dipped both hands into the waistband of Niccolò’s hose, giving his ass a squeeze and smiling at the rich moan he received in reward.

“Ride me,” he instructed in soft tones. Niccolò pushed his sodden hair off his forehead, his grin somewhere between mania and absolute glee, and obeyed.

 

 

 

 


	17. Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Volpe seduces Niccolo just for the fun of it.

“Gilberto.”

Volpe cracked open an eye, grinning when the young man plopped down beside him. The thief pushed himself up—he’d been reclining on his back, dozing—and stole a kiss, grinning when Niccolò licked at his mouth. “Mm. Morning…”

“It’s afternoon,” the assassin replied matter-of-factly, depositing a large bag full to brimming with food in Volpe’s lap and smiling at the older man’s delighted exclamations. It was a gorgeous day, sunny and warm, a light breeze tugging on his hair, playing through the grass. Niccolò lay back, folding his arms behind his head and watching Volpe tuck in. If the thief had a tail, Niccolò was sure it would be wagging.

“How was—your—day?” Volpe asked around mouthfuls of fresh bread.

“Pleasant enough. You want to hear the latest in Signoria madness?”

“No.”

Niccolò quirked an eyebrow upward. “No?”

“No.” Volpe took a swig of wine before offering his lover the bottle. “Tell me about something that will make you smile.”

“Ah.” Niccolò frowned, picking idly at the grass between his boots. “You.”

“What?”

“You,” the young man repeated, and met Volpe’s gaze steadily. “You make me smile.” Niccolò held his eyes for a moment more before looking down again, pink spreading across his cheeks. “I—”

He was silenced  by Volpe’s lips on his, and drew in a stuttering breath at the taste of wine in his mouth. Volpe wound a hand into his hair and pulled him close, coaxing his mouth to open further so their tongues could meet across the sharp tang of the alcohol. Niccolò moaned against him, fisting a hand in the thief’s shirt and angling his head, drawing his lover in deeper, harder, tasting him, the wine between their mouths was bitter and wet—

And then it was over, as quickly as it had begun. Volpe drew back, grinning, leaving Niccolò to awkwardly swallow a mouthful of wine, shakily wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Um.”

Volpe chuckled, stroking a tender finger along Niccolò’s nape, watching the hair on his neck rise and the skin pucker into goosebumps at the touch. “Erotic, no? Sensual.” His gaze darkened, and he leaned forward to trail kisses up the side of Niccolò’s neck, resting his mouth just beneath the younger man’s ear. “What are you doing tonight, _tesoro_?”

Niccolò blinked. He was sure he’d had plans—with Marcello? Weren’t they going to go out for drinks, find a tavern with singing and—but he completely lost the plot when he felt Volpe’s tongue on his skin, and a shiver clawed its way down his spine.

“Uh,” he responded dumbly.

“In that case,” Volpe purred, and slipped a hand into the boy’s trousers, smiling at Niccolò’s sharp intake of breath, “why don’t you come home with me? Let me pamper you. Cover you with wine, lick it off you.” He lowered his voice to a growl, scraping his teeth along Niccolò’s nape. “Devour you.”

Niccolò closed his eyes, feeling dizzy. Volpe was still touching him, his touch feather-light on his lover’s awakening hardness, more teasing than satisfying. Niccolò felt the older man’s mouth more acutely, lost himself to the sensation of lips and tongue and teeth massaging his skin, biting him, marking him.

“Alright,” he mumbled.

Volpe abruptly pulled away, withdrawing his hand from between Niccolò’s legs and sitting up, his smile bright and cheerful, not a ghost of the predatory gleam it had moments ago. “Excellent. It’s a date.” And without further ado, he sank his teeth into an apple, chewing merrily, while Niccolò stared at him in stunned disbelief.


	18. Wake II

Niccolò Machiavelli didn’t so much wake as struggle back to consciousness. He’d been floating somewhere between life and death for—well, he had know way of knowing how long. All he knew was darkness, a stygian abyss that promised an end to all things, and for unquantifiable amounts of time he had been clinging to the edge while the earth sloped downward, a nauseating vertical drop into nothing, his feet dangling over the precipice while that yawning chasm threatened to suck him in.

But for a while now the darkness had been getting brighter, the blackness seeping away into a soft grey, and some of the cold had retreated, the ground began to level out, making it easier to hold on. By the time he was horizontal again, he was in pain, and it was the sweetest sensation he’d ever known. Pain was an artifact of the mortal realm. Only the living could feel pain. And he was in absolute agony, therefore, in conclusion, undeniably, he must be alive.  

When the time came for him to be awake, he grabbed handfuls of the cold earth and pulled himself toward the grey, toward warmth, and he surged back into consciousness with fistfuls of knotted sheets in his hands and a cry in his throat. He choked on his own breath, opening his eyes and looking around, wild with something between fear and exhilaration.

And he saw Gilberto.

The thief was asleep in a chair at his bedside, his chin on his chest. His hood was down, letting his dark curls spill over his face and shoulders. He looked terrible, like he hadn’t slept in days—dark shadows underscored his eyes, and the thinness in his face made clear that he’d had no appetite.

But oh, God, he was beautiful, and for a moment Niccolò forgot about the pain, forgot about the chasm and stared at the man he loved, his heart so full it threatened to crush his lungs.

It was back in moments, though—that sick, hellish burn in his throat and nose and eyes, and he coughed, rolling onto his side and clutching his chest when he found he couldn’t draw air.

“Niccolò?” A hand in his hair, cool and gentle, another settling on his shoulder. “Niccolò...”

Volpe wrapped both arms around him, lifted him upright, and Niccolò’s stomach twisted when he tasted blood in his mouth. Blood and—something else, something stale and smoky—

“Here.” He tasted water—holy shit, he was _parched_ , apparently that abyss had also been a desert. He swallowed away the blood and the smoke, drank until Volpe murmured down at him and took the cup away.

“Niccolò, _tesoro_. Look at me.”

Niccolò opened his eyes, tilted his head back and squinted up at the older man. Volpe’s violet eyes softened, and a smile spread across his face, relief bringing the color back into his cheeks.

“Thank God…” He drew Niccolò close, pressed his mouth to the younger man’s brow and held him tightly.

Niccolò tried to speak and found he couldn’t; his throat felt raw, almost charred. He sputtered out a cough. Volpe only held him closer, rocked him, mumbled helplessly into his hair while Niccolò choked.

“It’s alright,” he whispered. “It’s alright, you’re alright. I’m here. I’m right here.”

And he was, wasn’t he? Niccolò clutched the arm wrapped around his shoulders, sucked in shaky breaths. This wasn’t just a fever dream, not a wild imagining right before that chasm swallowed him up—he was really alive, Gilberto was with him, holding him.

Volpe eased him back against the bed, smoothing a hand through his hair. “Do you remember what happened?”

Niccolò closed his eyes. His breathing was labored, harsh. Every inhalation made his lungs ache, his throat feel like fire. He shook his head.

“You were—” Volpe stopped, seemed to struggle for words. “You were poisoned. Cantarella.”

Poisoned. Niccolò’s mind swam. Poisoned by cantarella. Well. Not really surprising, was it? He was Machiavelli, after all. _Il Machia_. The finger of Satan, he’d been called. A Signoria devil. Cantarella.

A kiss against his mouth, soft and sweet. He opened his eyes, looking tiredly up at Gilberto, at those sad, adoring eyes. Gilberto loved him. There was no doubting that, not when the older man looked at him like that. And it set Niccolò’s heart at ease, made him feel safe and secure even while his would-be assassin’s poison burned through him.

He smiled, slid a hand into Volpe’s dark hair, and the thief pulled him into his arms again, held him close. Niccolò was tired, too tired to stay awake. He slid both arms around Gilberto’s back, clung to the man he loved until sleep came and swallowed him up.


	19. Masks

Sors was the Roman god of luck, a son of the goddess Fortuna, and Niccolò Machiavelli was uniquely comfortable wearing his face. The night was hot and vulgar; writhing, gyrating bodies passed him by, their faces obscured, hidden, so that their owners could indulge in vice. Gods and goddesses and nymphs and spirits and animals flitted by. The courtyard in front of the Vatican flickered with bonfires, the warm air thick with the smell of roasted pig and spiced wine and sweating bodies. And sex. The whole affair _reeked_ of sex. It was hard to believe that this was Roma, the city of God, that this sordid affair was planned and paid for by the Vatican.

Not that Machiavelli was complaining.

He wasn’t sure who to look for. This was part of their game—his Gilberto could be anyone, any _thing_. Niccolò had a feeling that the thief would be feeling playful, that he would try to outsmart his younger lover. But Niccolò wouldn’t be outsmarted—not by Volpe, not by anyone.

“Enjoying yourself, Ambassador?”

Niccolò jumped, turning on his heel and coming almost nose to nose with Lucrezia Borgia. Or—dammit all to hell, what was her name now? Di Aragona? Or had that one died already?

“Milady. Yes, I’m—quite entertained.”

She smiled at him, turning her mask aside so he could see every curve and feature of her face. She really was lovely. No wonder the pope had managed to peddle her body away for such fortunes. She had just been a girl, too, when he sold her to her first husband, that beast from Milan, Caterina’s cousin. Looking at the Borgia princess now, turned hard and cruel and twisted, Niccolò felt a pang of pity.

“I’m glad.” She reached for him, trailed her fingertips along his jaw and down the center of his chest. His breath caught, the hair on his neck standing up. “Mayhaps you’ll find a little friend to warm your bed tonight? Cesare tells me that you sleep alone. And he doesn’t see any women around you.”

How in the hell—no, nevermind, of course Borgia would have eyes on him at all times. That was just good politics. As for the women… Niccolò was briefly haunted by the image of Volpe in a dress. He smothered a grin.

“Court keeps me very busy, milady. I haven’t the time for life’s fairer pleasures.”

“A shame. You’re an interesting man, Ambassador.” Lucrezia stepped around him, let her hand rest very lightly on his shoulder. “I’m sure life’s fairer pleasurs have all the time in the world for you.”

She continued on her way, a vision in a golden gown, leaving him slack-jawed and staring after her, caught somewhere between flattered and horrified.

“ _Hey_.” Arms encircled his waist, catching him by surprise, and he jumped again when teeth nipped at his ear. “What did she want with you?”

“Gilberto.” Niccolò smiled, turned in his lover’s arms and leaned close to press a kiss to the older man’s mouth. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Mm.” Volpe tugged on his hips, pulling him a little further down the alley, further away from prying eyes. “Why were you talking to Lucrezia Borgia?”

“She talked to me first, actually. And I have appearances to keep up.” Niccolò kissed him again, a touch more firmly. “You know that.”

“I know.” Volpe frowned, cupping Niccolò’s chin in his hand and brushing a thumb across his mouth. “I still don’t like it.”

Machiavelli chuckled and wound his hands into the thief’s hair, drawing him close, and this time he was allowed the taste of his lover’s tongue before Volpe drew away. The younger man whined his frustration.

“Gilber _to_ …”

“Oh, hush. You’ll have me before the night’s through.” Volpe tapped the finely sculpted plaster of Niccolò’s mask. “Who are you supposed to be?”

“Sors.”

“...Who is…?”

“The god of luck, Gilberto, everyone knows—oh, nevermind,” Machiavelli grumbled, huffing a little as he looked the thief up and down. “And you’re—nobody?”

“I’m the infamous Florentine master of thieves. Heard of him? They say he’s quicker than a shadow in the night, deadlier than—”

“The point of a _Roman_ masquerade is to celebrate _Roman_ culture.”

“And you know as well as I that this is just an excuse for a party. The pope is just trying to distract the people from all of their nightmares.”

“I daresay it’s working.” Machiavelli raised his eyebrows when the thief dropped to his knees. “What are you doing?”

“ _I_ daresay that the god of luck is about to have a stroke of good fortune,” Volpe murmured, and began to undo the laces of Machiavelli’s hose.

“Wait!” Niccolò planted a hand on his lover’s head. “Are you out of your mind, what if someone sees? We’re right in front of the Vatican, for Chrissakes!”

“It’s a party, _tesoro_. Everyone’s fucking tonight.” Volpe grinned up at him. “Two more fools in love won’t make any difference.”

“But—” But nothing, because Gilberto licked him and Machiavelli entirely lost his train of thought, the world focusing down to that tongue on his cock. He staggered a few steps, his back hitting the wall, and Volpe came after him, pinning his hips to the cool stone before swallowing him whole. 


	20. Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Volpe's composure is just another mask.

“Gilberto. Come to bed.”

The thief gave a quick, negative jerk of his head. Niccolò sighed, stretching his arms over his head, enjoying the softness of the pillows on his bare skin.

“Please?” He propped himself up on an elbow. “I’m cold.”

“Pull a blanket up.”

Niccolò huffed and swung his legs out of bed. His lover stood with his back turned, focused intently on the window, watching the dark city outside. Tension pulled his shoulders taut, coiled the hard muscles of his back beneath the thin linen of his tunic. Niccolò crossed the room with easy strides and slid his arms around the older man’s waist, pressing his mouth to Volpe’s shoulder.

“There’s nothing you can do, love,” he murmured, his voice muffled against Volpe’s shirt. “You need to rest.” Curious reversal of roles, this—usually it was Volpe who had to coax his lover into relaxing.

“He’s too young,” Volpe said, his voice so quiet that Niccolò strained to hear him, leaning close. “He’s just a boy. He can’t do this.”

“He can. Gallo is skilled. He’s the best you’ve got.”

Volpe made a low noise and shrugged one shoulder. With a sigh, Niccolò circled around the older man’s larger frame, wedging himself between his lover and the window.

“Niccolò—”

“Stop. You’re worrying me.” Niccolò wrapped his arms around Volpe’s neck, tugging him close and brushing a soft kiss against his mouth. “Come to bed.”

“My youngest thief is in the Vatican. Right now. Trying to lift incriminating evidence out of the vice chancellor’s office. If he’s found, he’ll be tortured and killed. And his blood will be on my hands.”

“ _If_ he’s found. But Gallo has talent. He learned from the best. And if he succeeds, we’ll have information on the papal armies, information to which only the vice chancellor is privy.” Niccolò ran his hands down Volpe’s shoulders  and began to untie his shirt, lazily pulling the laces apart and revealing the dark curls of hair on his chest. “When was the last time I told you how much I love fucking you?”

“Last night. When I was fucking you.” Volpe tipped his head with a soft sigh when Niccolò’s lips brushed his neck, teeth scraping along his pulse. He cupped the younger man’s jaw and tilted his chin up, claimed his mouth in a slow kiss. Niccolò’s hands wound into his hair, pulling his lover closer, a delighted moan escaping between hungry kisses when Volpe pushed him up against the wall.

“Bed,” Niccolò mumbled, a shudder wracking his body when he was silenced by another kiss, Volpe’s tongue sliding against his. “Please.”

Volpe picked him up with ease and carted them to the bed in three long steps, dropping his lover somewhat unceremoniously onto the mattress before pouncing on him, a deep kiss turning rough and hungry as he pulled Niccolò’s legs apart. Niccolò let his thighs fall open, gasping up into Volpe’s mouth when two fingers thrust into his ass.

“Ungh—fuck—” Niccolò found himself flipped onto his stomach, and just barely managed to grab a handful of the sheets before Volpe’s hard cock breached his body. A hand pulled at his hair, jerking his head back at an angle that was just short of painful. Volpe didn’t bother to disrobe them; he’d only yanked Niccolò’s hose just far enough down to gain access before taking him.

Grunting, the thief stretched out languidly on top of his lover’s body, his hips making slow and steady progress into Niccolò’s ass. Niccolò gasped with each rough thrust, caught somewhere between pleasure and pain, escalating into sharp cries when Volpe sheathed himself to the hilt.

Volpe closed his eyes and sank his teeth into his lover’s bare shoulder. He wasn’t going to be able to come—it was too tight, too dry, more painful than enjoyable. It felt good for different reasons, for something that eclipsed the physical. Of course it was painful. Even this act of love could inflict hurt. That was what Volpe was good for, inflicting hurt, causing pain, it was too easy to turn a kiss into a bite—

Niccolò shuddered and, much to Volpe’s astonishment, began to come. Both hands were wound into his hair, leaving his cock lonely and neglected, ejaculating messily all over the blankets. Volpe watched him in abject shock, mystified that something so carnal and animal could bring the younger man any amount of pleasure. Mystified, he grasped his lover’s jaw and tilted his head up, watched him come, watched those grey eyes darken with want, that sweet mouth open and gasp out his desire.

Something horrid and cold cascaded into Volpe’s stomach. He pulled his hips back, trembling and tucking his softening cock back into his hose. He hadn’t come, nowhere close, but every ounce of lust had quite evacuated him.

“G-Gilberto?” Niccolò pushed himself up on quaking arms, wincing and placing a hand on his lower back. “Ow, fuck. What’s wrong?”

“Why did you cum?”

“What?”

Volpe turned on him, his hackles raised. “Why did you cum?!”

“I—” Niccolò blinked, stunned. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

“Just now, I wasn’t—I didn’t—I was hurting you—”

“Were you?” Niccolò slowly got to his feet, lifting his hands toward Volpe, alarmed at his lover’s abrupt change in demeanor. “I mean—were you trying to?”

“No!” Volpe shook his head, panic swelling up behind his sternum, suffocating him, crushing lungs. “I—maybe I—was? I don’t—” He drew away from the younger man’s touch. “It’s my fault. If Gallo dies, it—I sent him—me, I did—if you die—”

“Hey.” Niccolò stepped forward and took Volpe’s face in his hands. “ _Hey_ , look at me. Gilberto. Look at me right now.”

“Don’t call me that! I’m la Volpe, I—”

“I didn’t fall in love with la Volpe. I fell in love with _you_.”

“Why?” Gilberto demanded, trying to pull free of his lover’s grip, but Niccolò would have none of it. “What are you doing here? With me? Why—”

“Because you make me happy.” Niccolò spoke in low, quiet tones, pushing the man he loved up against the wall, pinning him. “Because no one else in this world knows me as you do. Shh, Gilberto. Relax, love. You’re panicking.” He pulled the older man into his arms, pressing Volpe’s face to his shoulder. “Shh, breathe. Breathe with me.”

Breathe. Volpe squeezed his eyes shut, fingernails digging into Niccolò’s back. He could feel his lover’s heartbeat, smooth and steady and calm. Poor Gallo. Poor boy. What had he done? It should have been him, he was more experienced, stronger, smarter, but he was afraid, dammit, he didn’t want to die, didn’t want to leave Niccolò here alone, not in a world this dark and this cruel... So he had sent the boy to do his work.

Goddammit.

A hard sob caught in his throat. He ran his hands over Niccolò’s back and shoulders and ass, pulled him closer. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry, _tesoro_ —”

“Shh. There’s nothing to apologize for.” Niccolò pressed a kiss to his temple, smoothing a gentle hand through his hair. “I love you.”

It took a great deal of murmuring and cooing to get Volpe back into the bed. He lay awake for a long time, trembling, staring out the window at the moon. Niccolò coaxed him into making love again, more gently this time, every slow, aching rock of their bodies interspersed with soft kisses. Volpe came long and hard, pushing up into the younger man perched on his hips, his cries silenced by Niccolò’s mouth on his.

Midnight came and went before Volpe finally fell asleep, his features pale in the moonlight, drawn with fatigue. Niccolò sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his lover’s hair, waited for news of Gallo’s fate while the moon arced through the sky.

A knock on the door at a little past two. Niccolò dressed quietly and answered it, opened the door to find one of Volpe’s right-hand men on the other side, looking haggard and tired and upset.

“Where’s la Volpe?”

“Asleep,” Niccolò said, unabashed. Among the thieves, at least, it was no secret that their leader was intimately engaged with the young diplomat. “What news?”

The thief shook his head. “Dead. Gallo’s dead.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes and drew a shaky breath. “He was twelve. Goddammit. Just a boy. They ran him through and dropped his body in the Tiber.”

Niccolò swallowed. He nodded and clapped the thief on the shoulder, then retreated into his room, closing the door against his back. A failure. No new intel, and now he would have to deal with the ramifications of a spy being discovered. Before being killed, had the boy talked? Who had he jeopardized? Volpe, Ezio, Machiavelli himself? Next time he went to court, would Borgia be there with the rack primed and ready? Niccolò shuddered.

Volpe stirred but didn’t wake. Niccolò returned to the bed and crawled in beside his lover, snuggling up against the older man’s back, trailing slow kisses up his spine before nestling in and wrapping an arm around Volpe’s waist.

Morning. It could all wait for morning.

 

 


	21. Stray

It took Niccolò a full ten minutes to realize he was being followed— a testament, perhaps, to just how ill he was. An annoying but unspectacular sniffle had evolved into a bone-splitting headache and wracking cough in the span of just a few days. He had scarcely set foot inside his office before Biagio blanched and ordered him to go home, stating that he looked— and Niccolò was quoting, here— “like absolute and utter shit.”

To which Niccolò had replied, “ _You’re_ absolute and utter shit,” then accepted defeat ungracefully and turned back for home.

Niccolò sniffled and wiped his nose on his glove, glancing over his shoulder and scowling. The mutt was still following him, prancing along on his heels with its tongue lolling out of its mouth. It was absolutely mangy, and the thought of it anywhere near his house made his skin crawl, but he couldn’t shake the thing.

“Go on,” he said, hating how nasally he sounded. “Shoo.”

The dog licked its nose and continued to grin at him, making dainty little pawprints in the snow. Niccolò sighed, tugged his collar up against the bitter breeze, and kept walking, trying to ignore its wet panting and the slurp of its tongue across its muzzle.

The beast followed him all the way home, offering up happy yips in response to his chastisements, and he wasn’t at all surprised when it slipped past his legs and bolted into his house the moment he opened the door.

“Hey!” Giovanni poked his curly head out of the kitchen, blinking rapidly, the dog jumping at his legs. “There’s a dog here!”

“Yes, I’d noticed.”

“Whose is it?”

Niccolò shrugged. “It followed me here.”

Giovanni’s eyes grew wide. “Can we keep it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What? Why not? _Please_ , Uncle Niccolò, please please please—”

“ _Alright_ ,” Niccolò said, groaning and cradling his head. “Alright, fine. Just wash the thing.”

“Yes!” Giovanni dropped to his knees and giggled while the mutt ran sloppy kisses over his cheeks. “What’s his name?”

“I’m sure I have no idea.” Niccolò stepped past him and into the kitchen, uncorking a new bottle of wine. “Why aren’t you at school?”

“Maestro wasn’t well today.”

Ah. Well, that made two of them. Niccolò dug around for the jar of pills— weird herbal remedies that Margherita swore by— and popped a handful while he poured himself a glass of wine.

“Uncle Gil is upstairs,” Giovanni added conversationally, and Niccolò choked.

“ _Who_?”

“Volpe,” Giovanni said, a bright smile on his face. “You know, the thief.”

“Yes, I—” Niccolò sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “How long has he been here?”

“Not long. He said you’d be home from work early today.”

Son of a… Niccolò ruffled Gio’s thick curls and headed upstairs, fuming to himself. He pushed open the door to his room, and sure enough, la Volpe was strewn across his bed, arms pillowed behind his head while he snoozed. Niccolò shucked his snow-dusted coat and threw it over the older man, smiling a little in satisfaction when Volpe grunted and woke with a start, flailing to get the coat off his face.

“Hey!” The thief sat up and shook out his hair, matted from sleep, before scowling at his younger lover. “That was rude.”

“You’re rude.” Damn, he was really off today. “What have I told you about inflicting yourself upon my nephew?”

“I wasn’t _inflicting_ —”

“A thirteen-year-old boy doesn’t need to know that the people raising him cavort with criminals, Gilberto!”

Volpe scowled. “Sorry. Jesus. What’s the big deal?”

“The _deal_ is that Gio’s a good boy. He still has a chance to be respectable.” Niccolò kicked off his boots and pulled off his stiff tunic, shivering a little. “Move over.”

Volpe scooted to the side, drawing back the blankets and chuckling when Niccolò cocooned himself, sniffling. “You sound miserable.”

“You’re miserable.”

“Good one.”

“Shut up.” Niccolò wriggled across the bed and snuggled in against Volpe’s side, closing his eyes against the throbbing in his head. “We have a dog now.”

“Oh?” Volpe smiled, running his fingertips through his beloved’s short hair. “I thought you didn’t care for animals.”

“I don’t. Damn thing followed me home.” He poked his lover in the ribs. “Second time I’ve picked up a stray.”

“I am personally offended, but also amused.” Volpe rolled onto his side, wrapping his arms around Niccolò’s shoulders. “Let me kiss you.”

“Mm. You’ll get sick.”

“You think I  care? Come here.”

Niccolò sighed and tipped his head back, parting his teeth to bite at Volpe’s lower lip just before the older man kissed him. Gilberto growled— approval? annoyance? perhaps both— and claimed his mouth, placed slow, teasing kisses against his lips. Niccolò kept his eyes closed and listened, soaked in the soft sounds between their open mouths, between lips and tongues coming together, coming apart, over and over, a steady, gentle rhythm.

“Gilberto…”

The door opened suddenly, banged against the opposite wall, and they both shouted when something landed on their knees. The dog, soaking wet, barked, kneading their blanket before leaping forward and laving its tongue over Volpe’s face while the thief shouted and tried to push it off. Niccolò scuttled sideways and rolled off the bed just before Giovanni came hurrying into the room, his own cheeks shiny with saliva, breathless with laughter.

“Sorry! He got past me!”

Niccolò sighed and tugged the blankets a little tighter around his shoulders. He sniffled, perfectly content to go to sleep on the floor, while his nephew and his lover made friends with a mangy mutt.


	22. Catch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring genderbent Volpe.

Florence’s most infamous thief craned her head to look over her shoulder, wincing at the sight of no less than twelve guards on her tail. With a muttered oath she turned a sharp left, cutting through a back alley, scaring several passerby. A volley of shouts and rapidly approaching footfalls informed her that the trick had done nothing to fool her pursuers. Not that she’d been expecting that a left turn was enough to throw off the Florentine guard, but oh well. Worth a try.

But she’d been running for ten minutes now, and when guards fell behind, new ones took their place. She was feeling winded and tired, and they had a nearly limitless supply of peons ready to clap her in irons.

She hit the main road, the stretch that ran up toward the government district, toward the Palazzo Vecchio,  her lungs on fire. Safehouse, where was the nearest damn—

An arm caught her around the middle, knocking the wind from her lungs, and she was jerked unceremoniously into a side alley and pressed into a warm body. A cloak went around her shoulders, hiding her face. The brief panic that had gripped her passed—she knew the arms that encircled her back, holding her close. A few breathless moments ticked by, and then the herd of guards stampeded past, shouting about the rooftops and the river, their voices fading away as they raced off in pursuit of a ghost.

Volpe cautiously lifted the cloak and poked her head out around the wall, grinning. The coast was clear. Satisfied that she was safe, she turned to her rescuer.

“Thanks.”

Niccolò Machiavelli arched an eyebrow—just the one, as was his annoyingly pretentious habit—and frowned. “You were careless.”

“Come on, _tesoro_ , don’t be like that,” she said, voice quivering into a petulant whine. She stepped closer to him, tugging on his shirt. “Thank you very, very much for saving me, and I’ll be much more careful in the future.”

Niccolò’s scowl stayed in place, but she saw his eyes darken, his gaze alight on her mouth. A little thrill ran through her. He might be able to fool everyone else, but she read him so easily he might as well have been one of his beloved books. La Volpe knew when her _tesoro_ wanted her.

“I’ve missed you,” she purred, toying with the laces of his shirt, teeth worrying at her lower lip. He inhaled sharply. “I haven’t seen you in days.”

“I’m busy,” he said stiffly, still fixated on her mouth. She trailed her fingertips along the side of his neck and felt his pulse race at her touch. “Volpe…”

“Mm?” She blinked up at him, the picture of innocence, even while she cackled inwardly. He was so easy. “What is it?”

She’d been expecting a purely carnal response, maybe to be picked up and whirled around and taken against the wall, but the hand that slid into her hair was gentle, pulling her closer to his wiry body. He hesitated for a moment, those grey eyes like a storm. Volpe took hold of his shirt and stood on the tips of her toes. They kissed, slow and sweet, and the warmth of his mouth on hers  made Volpe ache everywhere—her sex, her stomach, her heart.

“Niccolò—”

“Hush.” He kissed her again, more firmly, and she tasted raw hunger on his tongue. She had nearly run out of breath when he drew back, looking down at her with stern eyes. “You need to be more careful, _mi amore_. Dont make me worry so much.”

 _Amore_. A little thrill ran down her spine, and she pulled on him so she could press her mouth against his. “Take me home.”

“What—”

“ _Your_ home. Now, Niccolò.”

He sighed. “Totto’s at home.”

“Then your quarters at the Signoria. Or a safehouse. Anywhere.” She slid her fingertips into his waistband, and those grey eyes darkened. “I want you, _tesoro_. And you want me, so _have_ me already.”

Niccolò looked up and down the alley, debating, while she stroked the trail of dark hair beneath his navel. He tugged on her arm, leading her a short distance away from the road. They happened upon a door, nearly rotted off its hinges, and he knocked in it with three hard kicks (sort of pointless machismo, but hell, if he wanted to impress her, let him—Volpe wasn’t complaining). It fell to the ground with a little puff of dust, revealing an abandoned bedroom within, complete with shuttered windows and rotted mattress.

“I’ve found us accommodations.” He stepped over the threshold and offered her his hand. “ _Bella_?”

“What if someone sees?”

“Who cares?”

Fair point. Biting down a grin, she took his hand and allowed herself to be led inside. Niccolò dropped her hand so he could survey the room, muttering to himself, and while his back was turned Volpe shucked her vest and untied her tunic, letting her shirt fall open.

“I can’t imagine anyone’s lived here in—” Niccolò turned on his heel and stopped, eyes moving from her face to her exposed chest and back up again. Then back down. Back up. “Oh.”

“Did you think I was kidding?”

His gaze softened. “No.” He approached her with easy, confident strides, and she shivered, drinking in the sight of him, the way his body moved. His arms encircled her, brought her flush to his own warm chest, and the heat in his kiss made her head swim.

She let him lift her up and deposit her on the mattress, pausing to remove his cloak and loosen his own shirt before bending over her again, sucking kisses against the side of her neck while her hands roamed his chest, shoulders, tangled in his dark hair and held him to her.

“ _Tesoro_ —”

“I’m sure I told you to hush.”

She grinned, let her hands wander over his sides and around his hips. Cheeky, this, but… she grabbed his ass in both hands and snorted when he stiffened, his mouth opening in an affronted gasp against her throat.

“You did it, you know. What the whole Florentine guard couldn’t.”

“What did I do?”

He lifted his head, and she smiled up at him, tracing a thumb over his lips before pushing herself up on her elbows to kiss him, slow and soft.

“Caught me.”

“Ah.” His gaze darkened, thunder and lightning in those eyes, and he lowered his mouth to hers. “Well, you’re only mine to catch.”

She kissed him fiercely, and they spoke no more.

  
  



	23. Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit extremely proud of this one.

“Letter for you, Boss.” Biagio Buonaccorsi leaned back in his chair and reached to hand Machiavelli the delivery while the second chancellor bustled to his desk. Niccolò accepted it with a grunt, stretching as he sank down on his chair.

“Long night?” Agostino queried, glancing up from revision number five or six thousand for the Sforza contract.

“Sort of.” Rubbing his eyes, Niccolò slit the wax seal and opened the letter, scanning the top for the elegant, curled letters that would identify the sender, but they were absent. Frowning, he looked down at the first line.

 

_Tesoro,_

 

Shit. He placed it face-down on his desk, his heart it in his throat, suspicious immediately. Why would Volpe send him a letter? To the Signoria, no less? They had seen each other just last night, spent hours tumbling around the bed, fucked one another so brutally hard that Niccolò’s lower back still ached with the memory. Chewing his lower lip, he lifted the letter again.

 

_Tesoro,_

_I write this in the hopes that it may liven up an otherwise dull day,_

 

Nope. Niccolò slapped it down again, ignoring Biagio’s curious glance in his direction. Nope, nope. Nothing Volpe considered lively was appropriate for polite conversation or public places. No way in hell was he about to read whatever filth was in that missive, not while he sat at his desk surrounded by his two best friends and four notaries.

He passed an hour with busywork, editing Agostino’s draft, slipping in some laudatory language to celebrate Caterina Sforza’s unparalleled wit, bravery, beauty, prowess, et cetera et cetera, bullshit sure to make her roll her eyes. He hoped dearly that this letter wouldn’t find her while she was abed with Ezio; they’d both read over it and laugh themselves silly at their poor comrade slaving away in politics. The very thought made Niccolò grind his teeth, and he struck most of the compliments, reducing the letter  to barebones practicalities and giving it back to Agostino to prepare as a final draft.

Volpe’s letter sat on his desk, innocuous and innocent, and he glared at it every so often. If he was smart (and he was), he would just burn the thing, remove himself from temptation, but he was a little touched that Volpe bothered to write at all. The thief had learned to read and write late in life, and had really only gotten proficient with Niccolò’s patient tutelage. Niccolò’s work depended on his ability to whip out foot-long missives in a matter of minutes, on how well he could translate thought to eloquent wording without the need for revision. A letter of this length might take him five, ten minutes, but it had probably taken Volpe the better part of several hours.

Chewing on his lip, Niccolò picked up the letter again. One paragraph couldn’t hurt, right?

 

_Tesoro,_

_I write this in the hopes that it may liven up an otherwise dull day, perhaps even put a smile on your face. Firstly, I want you to know that I have never known love greater than that which I have known from you, and for that I am eternally grateful._ (Such eloquence. Seriously, how long had this taken?) _Secondly, I want you. Full stop._ (Typical.) _Thirdly, as I write, you are in Pesaro suffering through diplomatic relations with the Sforza, and I believe Caterina is there, so I must express my condolences as well as my longing to see you again._ (Fuck Caterina, really, weren’t they supposed to be friends?)

 

Niccolò put aside the letter to answer a notary’s inquiries, but his head wasn’t in it. He wanted to keep reading Volpe’s words, unexpectedly elegant and passionate. He had half expected to have read _Fuck me silly_ by now. Why didn’t Volpe speak the way he wrote? Actually, it was probably a good thing he didn’t. Niccolò might tie him to the bed and just make him talk. As if there was anything more seductive than good writing.

The notary went back to his desk, and Niccolò picked up the letter again with a little more eagerness than he’d care to admit.

 

_I hate these long stretches of time without you. Make no mistake, love, I’m proud of you. You have worked so hard. You are the man you are as  a result of your own dedication and ambition and brilliance, and I can scarcely believe that I am the man fortunate enough to call you his own, when there are so many above my rank and station, and certainly more on par with your intellect, who must be miserably desirous of you. But I hate that your work, so dear to you, takes you so far from me. Is it too late to become a chancellor myself? Or perhaps one of your poor notaries, overworked and underpaid? Imagine Caterina’s face if I showed up beside you in fancy hose, hair cropped short._

_But imagine something else, now, because I promised I’d entertain you._

 

Oh, shit. If there was a point to turn back, it was probably now. These were just words, but Niccolò could feel Volpe’s smirk through the page, could see the way his violet eyes would narrow and darken. He kept reading, unable to resist, as always, and went straight through to the end.

 

_But imagine something else, now, because I promised I’d entertain you. When you are gone, I give myself over to all manner of wild imaginings. I permit  my mind to wander, to think of you in ways I am almost ashamed to admit. What is it called, carissimo, when a person or idea so ensnares the soul, and the heart, and possesses  one’s worldly desires? A muse? I believe that’s the word. You are then, my dearest, my own one, my muse, and I am so helplessly enraptured by you. I imagine you in all of your favorite places—by the open window above the main street, so the noise and jubilation of the city can reach you while you read. I wish, sometimes, that you could see yourself as I see you, dark and quiet and brooding, so deep in thought you don’t even notice my comings and goings. I wish you could see the way your eyes look when you gaze out the window, staring out at the Arno and to the Tuscan fields beyond. I wish you could behold your intensity, the way you fold the world up in your eyes and make it your prisoner. I love you so much in those fleeting moments that I can hardly stand it._

_What is more impressive to me is the fact that you allow me to draw you away from that world in your mind, that you allow me to tug you from the window, to take your beloved books from your hands and set them aside. I love the way you look at me when I do, somewhere between anger and interest. I love the way you taste when I kiss you, the way your body feels under my hands when I push you toward the bed, the way your chest rises when I pull your shirt open and bare you to me. I love the way you watch me, let me undress you, one little bit at a time, explore you, taste the lust on your lips and the salt of your sweat on your skin. It’s delicious, as delicious a thing as I’ve ever tasted, and it’s so hard not to bite into you, to draw your blood and taste that, too._

_More than anything, I love that breathless moment when you are finally naked beneath me, and the window is still open, the sounds of the city still there, and the wind ruffles the pages of your books, but your eyes are on me, waiting, wanting. Your want is a beautiful thing. It’s always too warm, isn’t it, and I undress, watching you watch me, watching desire stir you and possess you. As much as I like to make you desperate, to rouse you to hardness while you’re trapped in your hose, there’s something beautiful about watching your body awaken, about seeing you respond to the removal of my cape. It’s when I take my hood off, tesoro, that I see you become hard, and you always bite your lips and look away for just a moment, as if you’re ashamed at your exposure. It’s not action that arouses you, is it—it’s thought, the idea that I am making myself bare to you, revealing to you more than just my face. And I can taste that, too, when I lean down to kiss you, and feel your hungry tongue, the way your hips arch up into me when I press you into the bed. I have memorized the feel of your body, tesoro—the unexpected strength in your shoulders, the warm pulse in your throat, the softness of the hair on your chest and stomach, the smoothness of that scar in your left side, obtained protecting me, but we won’t speak of that here, not now, not when you are bare and beautiful and waiting for me to have you._

_And have you I shall. Your eyes darken when you see the bottle of oil, and the sounds you make when I slick you are enough to drive a man to madness. You are so tight, after all these years, but you open around me willingly, let my fingers slide inside you, feel you, stretch you. I like to watch you struggle to keep your control, to see your hands curl and open in the coverlet, your hips arch just so, your lower back bow up when I push in deeper, and deeper still, as far as physik will allow. You don’t cry out, not yet, but your breath is fast, your skin flushed, and you mumble my name, helpless. It’s too much to resist, always, tesoro, when you call for me. I would hear you say my name from half a world away. I prepare myself, but it’s fast, sloppy, and I’m impatient. I can’t decide how I want to have you—on your back, or sitting up on my hips, or from behind, or standing, sitting. You make the decision for me, grab me and kiss me, your mouth open and moaning, hands pulling me to you. It’s bliss, the moment I push inside you, and warm and wet and tight. I like to slip a hand between us, to feel you stretched around me, to touch with my fingertips the motions that make you cry out and grasp at me._

_I only wish I were better endowed so I could take you more deeply, but you’re already stretched and aching and you mumble that you’re full, that I’m too big after a long absence. I don’t know if you say those things for the benefit of my ego, or if there’s truth in what you say. Either pleases me. But it’s always hard at first when we’ve been apart for a while, so I take you slowly, hitch myself into you until my hips are against your ass and you’re gasping under your breath, reaching up over your head to grab the edge of the mattress, bracing yourself. If I stay still long enough, you’ll start to beg—just sweet little murmurs at first, but when I thrust into you, you cry out my name, stutter “Please” before you can stop yourself. I would leave you hanging at the edge of pleasure forever, just to hear you ask for me in that broken way, beyond control. I want so badly to kiss you, but I don’t want you to stop talking. We stay close, our lips brush, and you mumble against my mouth, always the same plea: “Gilberto. Please. Please.” Your eloquence abandons you in bed, strips you down to bare desire, and I love that no one else has ever made you speechless, not like this._

_I don’t know whether we fuck or make love—it’s probably both. Whatever we do, it never lasts long enough. I can feel myself getting close, and I touch you, rub your swollen cock and smile when you choke and sputter and try to push my hand away, but it’s too late for you. You cum, your back arches so hard you profess it aches in the morning, and you make this sound—it’s like a sob, or a gasp, but it’s folded up in my name, and I tumble down after you, cum inside you, watch you shudder and keen at the sensation. I take you until it hurts to continue, stay inside you until I’m too soft to remain. There is this moment, moments after we part, more erotic and obscene than anything else in this world, and it’s the sight of my seed spilling from you, and the way you grimace and sigh, because even that is enough to stir up too much sensation when you’re so spent and so sensitive. I touch your cock, wipe the cum from your tip and stroke your cheek when your hips arch away from my hand, when you draw in a breath. I suck on my fingers, and I’ve never cared whether you see—I just want to taste you, feel as debauched as you look in those sweet moments after I’ve spent myself inside you._

_There is nothing on this earth more intense and more enjoyable than taking you, my love, but I adore what comes next—curling up beside you, trailing touches over your warm body, kissing the salt and the sweat from your skin while you struggle to catch your breath, and tiredness makes your limbs heavy and numb. It’s charming the way sex wearies you, to be honest. I like watching you drift off to sleep, which you always do, invariably, after you cum, not caring that you’re filthy, that my own cum is drying in the cleft of your ass, that you’re going to ache when you sit up. All I can do is watch you, kiss you, run my fingers through your hair and hold you to me while you rest. I’ve never left you after sex, if I could help it, and this is how I know that I love you. It’s so easy to run afterward, to take that carnal pleasure and be done with it all, but the first few times we slept together I couldn’t bear to leave. You are so charming, so witty and pleasant when awake, but I know I fell in love with you while you slept, because your absence, even from the world of the waking, almost tears me in two._

_This should reach you at the Signoria. Leave Biagio and Agostino to look after things for a while.  Come find me, wherever I am, and remind me that you are mine, and that I am yours, for however long you want me._

_All of my love, Niccolò, my tesoro, and then some._

_Gilberto._

 

“Boss?” Agostino lifted his head and blinked when Niccolò abruptly stood and pushed in his chair. “Where are you going? The contract’s not done—”

“It can wait.”

“What?”

“I said it can wait.” Niccolò swung on his cloak and made for the door, smiling. “This is more important.”


	24. Toys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU. Volpe and Niccolò experiment with an anniversary present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all kinds of kinky, and I'm not even sorry.
> 
> Okay maybe a little

“Oh, my _God_. This was a _present?"_

“From Leonardo.” Volpe grinned at his lover and took his phone from his pocket, opening the app that would make the magic happen. “Watch.” He tapped the button—one button and a sliding bar constituted the entire app—and laughed when the metal dildo on the bed began to vibrate noisily against Niccolò’s leg, making him jump.

“What the _fuck_?”

“I can turn it on, off, adjust the intensity…” Volpe slid the bar back and forth to demonstrate, biting his lip to keep from laughing at Niccolò’s affronted expression. “All completely remote.”

“This was a present,” Niccolò reiterated somewhat weakly, shaking his head.

“We’ve been together for a year. Leonardo wanted to get us something special.”

“Um. Sure. _Wild_ inappropriateness aside, tell me exactly what the point is?”

Volpe grinned, stepping closer to the bed and running his hands through Niccolò’s hair. His boyfriend was completely naked at Volpe’s request, shivering a little in their chilly bedroom. “Lay down.”

Niccolò looked up at him with a touch of suspicion. “Why?”

“I’ll show you how the toy works.”

With a shrug, Niccolò lay down on his back, arching an inquiring eyebrow when Volpe knelt between his legs. Volpe leant down to trail slow kisses across his lover’s collarbone, nipping at his skin.

“Can you get yourself ready for me?”

“Lazy,” Niccolò chided, but wrapped a hand around his cock, biting his lip and shifting his hips anxiously while Volpe reached into their bedside table, withdrawing their lube and condoms. “Can we get under the covers at least? It’s fucking cold.”

“I want to see you.” Volpe coated his fingers with lube and lowered his hand between Niccolò’s legs, grinning at his lover’s shudder. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

“Whatever you’re going to do, do it already…”

“Patience is a virtue, you know.” He slid a finger into Niccolò’s ass, delighting in his quiet gasps, and pushed the younger man’s knees apart to give himself more room. “Shit, babe, you’re really tight… I’m sorry it’s been so long.”

“It’s f-fine,” Niccolò stuttered out, twisting his hands into the sheets above his head when a second finger pushed inside him. “ _Oh_ —good—”

“Yeah?” Volpe grinned, leaning down and kissing his lover’s panting mouth, slicking his lips with slow kisses while he upped the pace of his fingers, adding a third when he felt Niccolò relax around him.

“Y-Yeah—harder—” Niccolò groaned when the fingers retreated, lifting his head to scowl at Volpe. “What the hell? What are you—” He broke off with a gasp, his lower back bowing hard when the metal dildo slid into his body. “Oh. _Oh_ —f-fuck—”

“There you go,” Volpe said smugly, pushing the toy in until its elongated base was flush with Niccolò’s entrance. “Feel good?”

“Yes! Fuck!” Niccolò grabbed the front of Volpe’s shirt and pulled him in for a hard kiss, moaning when Volpe shoved him back onto the bed. “Gil, come on—”

“Will you settle down?” Volpe sat back on his heels, tapping his phone screen back to life and opening the app. “You ready?”

“For what?”

Volpe grinned and tapped the button, and Niccolò cried out, scrambling to sit up and grabbing hold of his lover. “That.”

“Fu—ungh—”

“Right?” Volpe laughed, wrapping an arm around the younger man and lying down, holding Niccolò to his chest while he struggled and cried out, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the bed. “How’s it feel?”

“Oh, God—” Niccolò squeezed his eyes shut, panting, clenching down around the hard length buzzing in his body. “Fuck, it’s good—it’s really deep—”

Volpe kissed his brow, wriggling to get his arm free from beneath Niccolò ’s head and sliding the app bar to the right. Niccolò all but sobbed, tightening his grip on Volpe’s body and rubbing his jutting erection against his lover’s thigh. “The vibration really makes it better?”

“Yes—oh God, oh _fuck_ —more—”

“Nope.” Volpe hit the button, turning off the vibrator, and sat up, reaching across the bed to grab the third and final piece of their present. “Stand up.”

“What?” Niccolò pushed himself up on his elbows, panting as he recovered. “Why?”

“Just do it.”

Grumbling, the younger man got shakily to his feet, raising an eyebrow when Volpe lifted the object in his hand. “Is that…?”

“Yep. Pelvic harness.” Volpe waved it back and forth, grinning. “Like gay chicks wear.”

“Are you coming out to me as transgender? Don’t get me wrong, you’ll make a beautiful woman, but I do prefer men.”

“Real cute.” Volpe opened the harness and raised an eyebrow. “Step in.”

“Gil—”

“Babe, just do it.”

Niccolò sighed and did as he was told. “You’ve got that inside-out. And backwards.”

“Yep, I do.” Volpe slid it up his boyfriend’s bare legs, reaching around Niccolò’s hips to grasp the toy and give it a cheeky twist before securing it in the harness—backwards and inside out, the clip was at Niccolò’s rear—and cinching the straps around his hips. “There. Good fit?”

“Um, I imagine so?” Niccolò bit his lip as Volpe guided his cock and balls through the hole he’d cut in the harness’ front. How courteous. “This is getting increasingly ridiculous.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet. Put your hands on your head.”

Niccolò rolled his eyes and laced his fingers behind his head. “And?”

“Spread your legs,” Volpe murmured, getting to his feet. Niccolò took a step to the right and deliberately tightened his body, flexing his shoulders and abs, grinning at the open hunger in Volpe’s face. “Fuck. Beautiful, babe.” He stepped forward, running his hands appreciatively over Niccolò’s sides and waist, grabbing his hips and pulling him close. They kissed hotly, all tongue and teeth, the arch of Niccolò’s erection caught between their bodies.

“So?” Niccolò murmured, wincing when Volpe bit his lip, “what’s your devious plan?”

“You,” Volpe whispered, “are going to keep that harness on. You’re going to keep that inside you. And I’m going to turn it on whenever I want. Wherever you are. Whomever you’re with. Whether you cum, whether you struggle for hours on the edge of release—that’s all up to me.”

Niccolò lifted his eyebrows. “And why would I agree to something like that?”

Volpe grinned, looking every bit as wild and manic as the animal for which he was named. “Simple, _tesoro_ —it’s gonna be fun.”


	25. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let it be known far and wide that Oliver Bowden shot my baby.
> 
> Special cameo appearance by *consults cast list* some French guy.

Volpe was scared. It was a foreign feeling, a sick twisting in his gut. He felt unsteady and off-balance; he snapped easily, had lost most of his characteristic good cheer. He was glad it was only Claudia with him; he didn’t want anyone else seeing him so… broken.

A letter from an M. Acosta in Valencia had arrived by pigeon a week ago, equipped only with instructions for the thief la Volpe to be in Pisa by the sixteenth, to meet a ship called _Magdalena_. This Acosta fellow had signed the letter, but its wax seal was distinctive—the bevelled cross and nails, the Machiavelli coat of arms, and when he saw it, Volpe’s heart had leapt into his throat and made it a permanent residence.

He tipped his hood back and consulted the sun. It was high noon, the seventeenth. The breeze off the water only slightly mitigated the brutal summer heat, and he was beginning to feel sticky and uncomfortable in his heavy cape.

“Quit squirming,” Claudia said from his left, shooting him an irritated glance. “This could be nothing.”

“That was Machiavelli’s seal,” Volpe said for the hundredth time. “He’s coming back from Valencia and needed some stranger to send us word. That doesn’t concern you?”

“Machiavelli and my brother are big boys,” Claudia said coolly, turning the page of her book and shifting her legs. She sat on a crate, casual as the wind, while Volpe paced and hovered anxiously. “They can look after themselves.”

Yes, they were, and yes, they could, but that didn’t keep Volpe from worrying. “Why haven’t we heard from them before now? Why didn’t N—Machiavelli write to tell us he’d be returning?”

“I’m sure we’ll find out soon,” Claudia retorted, and would indulge his questions no further. Volpe left her, stalking up and down the docks, letting the rhythmic thudding of his boots on the rotting wood drown out the anxious drumroll of his heart.

The _Magdalena_ pulled into the dock three hours later. She was a weary-looking vessel with wind-beaten sails and a hull encrusted with barnacles; she didn’t look like the sort of ship to bring glad tidings. Volpe waited impatiently while the captain disembarked and the crew unloaded the most important cargo, scanning the faces of the passengers waiting to touch land. Niccolò wasn’t among them.

Most of the passengers were on the dock when a young man approached Volpe, obviously cautious, stepping toward the older man as if Volpe were a wild animal.

“ _Monsieur_?”

“ _Signor_ ,” Volpe responded a touch impatiently. “You’re on Italian soil now, boy.” He pulled the letter from his pocket and indicated the signature. “Are you this Acosta fellow?”

“No, _Mon—Signor_. I’m the doctor’s apprentice—my name is Alec—he told me to find you, the patient described your likeness—”

“Doctor?” Volpe cut in, his throat turning dry.

Claudia appeared at his shoulder and chimed in with “Patient?”

“Yes, _Signor_ , milady— _Monsieur_ Machiavelli.”

Volpe’s stomach dropped into his feet, and he seized the boy by the lapels, loosening his grip only when Claudia delivered a sharp elbow into his ribs. “Where is he?”

“Below deck, _Signor_ —” The boy stepped in front of Volpe, hands held up. “I was told to ask you for a password.”

“What? This is ridiculous, let me—”

“There’s a question, _Signor_ —um—” Alec screwed up his face, trying to remember. “Ah, it is this—what traits are common to the greatest of princes?”

Claudia looked bewildered, but Volpe answered without hesitation. “ _Virtù e prudenza_. Where _is_ he?”

Satisfied, Alec beckoned, and they followed him aboard the _Magdalena_ , descending the rickety staircase that led below deck. The smell made Volpe’s eyes water, and Claudia gagged; the air was soured by vomit and sweat, and dark molds dampened every available wooden surface. Volpe seized Claudia’s hand and pulled her close when a large deckhand leered at her as they passed by.

Alec led them to the back of the deck, a handkerchief pressed delicately over his nose and mouth. Volpe’s stomach twisted—the men and women lying in these cots were obviously sick. Some even appeared to be dead, though their bodies had yet to bloat.

“I wouldn’t,” Alec said when Claudia bent to check on an old woman’s frail form. “The Neapolitan disease.”

Claudia recoiled and tucked her hands into her cape.

They reached the back left corner, and Alec lifted a hand to point at a cot, but Volpe was already pushing past him, his heart in his throat. He knew that silhouette, that body—sucking in a ragged breath, he dropped to his knees by the cot, extending a trembling hand to touch its occupant’s hair.

“Machiavelli…” Claudia drew up short behind him, sucking in a breath. “Christ. Alec, what’s happened to him?”

“Shot, milady,” Alec said grimly. Volpe stuffed his knuckles into his mouth to keep from crying out. “My master told him he wasn't well enough to travel, but he was determined to follow _Monsieur_ Auditore back to Rome.”

Claudia continued to question him, and Volpe tuned them both out, smoothing Machiavelli’s hair back from his forehead. The young man looked as if he were on death’s doorstep—sweat slicked his flushed skin, his breath rattled in his chest, and dark circles like bruises lined his eyes.

Volpe jumped when Claudia knelt down beside him, reaching out to touch Machiavelli’s cheek. “Damn it. He’s so hot.”

“I’m afraid his injuries have festered, milady—there was nothing I could do while we were at sea.”

“Home,” Volpe managed to croak out, turning to look at Claudia. “We have to get him home. Florence is just a long day’s ride—”

“He can’t travel,” Claudia said flatly. “We’ll tend him here. You and Alec find a stretcher and get him above deck, out of this… pit. I’ll find someone with a cart who can take us to an inn.”

And at that moment, Volpe was immensely grateful Claudia had come along. He and Alec speedily fashioned a stretcher from a dead man’s crutches and part of an old sail, and managed to carry Machiavelli up the stairs with a great deal of puffing and swearing. Claudia had returned by the time they were above deck, motioning to them from the docks, where she stood beside an old man and his mule-drawn cart.

“Easy,” Volpe said, climbing into the cart and helping Claudia and Alec hoist their unconscious friend in after him. “Be gentle…” He cradled Machiavelli’s head in his lap as the cart rattled into motion, biting his lip and stroking his lover’s hair while Claudia sat quietly at his side.

“I didn’t know,” she said, speaking just loudly enough to be heard over the clatter of the cart’s wheels. Alec sat in the front with the old man, casting worried glances back at them every so often.

Volpe didn’t look at her. “Few do. We’ve sacrificed much to keep it that way.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

“I know. Thank you.”

“How bad?”

Volpe swallowed, unlacing Machiavelli’s shirt and opening the neck. He traced his fingertips over the thick swatch of linen bandages bound around the younger man’s torso. “Shot through the shoulder. His collarbone is broken.”

“Master Acosta set it,” Alec piped up, and went quiet at Volpe’s thunderous glare.

“When did he lose consciousness?”

“Last last night—or early this morning. I’m not sure which.”

“Who did it?”

“I’m not sure, _Signor. Monsieur_ Ezio didn’t say.”

“And where is Ezio now?”

“I don’t know, _Signor_.”

Volpe ground his teeth, pointedly looking away from the unhelpful boy before the urge to punch him in his stupidly round face became overpowering.

The nearest inn was nothing pretty to look at, but they had two spare beds in the attic, so Claudia deemed the place fitting. Volpe didn’t care about the accommodations; he let Claudia settle their fee and carried his wounded lover upstairs, easing him onto the nearest cot (little more than a blanket stuffed with straw) and settling down beside him.

“He won’t wake unless we can bring his fever down.”

Volpe turned to Claudia, wincing an apology when she dropped all of their luggage with an exaggerated sigh. “How do we do that?”

She considered, untying her hair and letting the dark curls fall around her shoulders. After a moment’s pause she nodded to herself and left the room, returning a few moments later with one of the servant girls in tow.

“Bring him,” she said, gesturing to Machiavelli, and disappeared again.

* * *

“Are you comfortable?”

“No,” Volpe said, his teeth chattering. He shifted, shivering when cold water sloshed up to his chest,  holding Machiavelli a little closer. The younger man lay still and silent against his chest, held upright by Volpe’s arms secured around his waist. Volpe was fully dressed, having refused to disrobe firstly because Claudia was present, and secondly because the bath was _freezing_.

“He’s already cooler,” Claudia said, touching Machiavelli’s face and nodding to herself. “I’m going to have a look at his injuries.”

“If you must.”

Claudia fixed him with a hard look as she sawed at the bandages with a small knife. “I know what I’m doing, Gilberto.”

He chafed, scowling at her and hugging Machiavelli a little closer. “Don’t call me that.”

Claudia’s smile was short-lived, and her breath left her in a low gasp as she peeled back the bandages. Volpe swallowed and closed his eyes, unable to look at the damage done to his beloved’s body.

“Oh, Volpe…”

“Don’t. Just tend him.”

Her gulp was audible. “Alright. Hold him up.”

They spent a half hour in utter silence. Claudia cleaned Machiavelli’s injuries with all the care in the world, her dark eyes darting upwards to Volpe every so often, but he didn’t meet her gaze; he stared steadfastly down at Machiavelli’s legs, cradled between his own, and listened to the sound of his lover’s ragged breathing.

But when the time came to get out, he couldn’t avert his eyes any longer. The damage was somehow worse than he’d expected—black circular bruises mottled the skin of Machiavelli’s shoulder, making rings around a messy patch of stitching where some unnamed gunman’s bullet had torn into the man he loved. Volpe trailed feather-light touches along the grotesque expanse of the injury, wincing at the odd protrusion in the middle of the broken collarbone, traced his hand along the back of Machiavelli’s shoulder until he found the ragged exit wound.

“Claudia…”

“I know,” she whispered, drying Machiavelli’s hair with a soft towel before placing it over his shoulder, covering the worst of his injury. “Let’s just get him back to the room and… and…”

And nothing, because neither of them knew what to do next.

* * *

Micheletto’s face exploded in a spray of blood and bone, and Ezio jerked backwards, covering a gag behind his mouth, but he leaned forward, confirmed with his own eyes that Micheletto was dead, the tile fell, shattered on the ground, and Cesare whipped around, raised the pistol, fired—Ezio leaning over him, shouting at him, pulling him upright—snatches of Spanish and Italian, blurred together, a murmur in the background—and pain, _awful_ pain—

Machiavelli opened his eyes. Birds. He heard birds. He rocked his head to the side, squinting at the open window—bright sunlight fell in dappled patches on the floor. He tried to sit up, but pain knocked him back with a gasp.

“Don’t—you’re badly hurt.”

He tilted his head to the other side and blinked. “Claudia?”

The youngest surviving Auditore smiled and waggled her fingers at him, closing the book in her lap. “Good morning.”

“Where—what—”

“Pisa. That doctor’s apprentice brought you back—apparently against the _medico’_ s orders?”

He remembered now. _Monsieur_ Acosta,  in Valencia—a stuffy backroom clinic, the stink of opium, which took the pain away but fogged his mind—an encroaching fever, heat that started at his collar and spread until he thought he would suffocate—

“You’re still cool,” Claudia was saying, her hand on his brow, and she nodded to herself. “That’s good. You were burning up when you got here.”

“...How long was I…?”

“Two nights and a day. I almost thought you wouldn’t wake.” She got to her feet and gave him a stern look when he tried to sit up. “Stay put. I’m going to tell Volpe.”

His heart jumped into his throat, and he nodded acquiescence and lay back down, watching her retreating back while his pulse hammered against his windpipe. Volpe was here? In Pisa?

A shout sounded from downstairs, and Machiavelli couldn’t smother his grin at the sound of pounding footsteps—and then Volpe bolted through the door, pausing long enough to draw in a gasp before throwing himself on the younger man, dragging Machiavelli into his arms and cradling him to his chest.

“ _Niccolò._ ”

“ _Ow_ —fuck—Volpe—”

“What were you _thinking_?! You _idiot_! Crossing an _ocean_ when you’re this badly injured!”

“I—”

“I don’t want to hear it!” Volpe pushed him back down onto the bed and leaned in, punishing him with a bruising kiss. “Never again, do you hear me?”

“Volpe—”

“Do you?!”

Machiavelli sighed, lifting his good hand and cupping the thief’s cheek, brushing a thumb along his scruffy chin. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Good.” Volpe kissed him again, but it was gentle; Machiavelli could taste the fear on his lips, the anxiety, and guilt twisted his insides. “God. I missed you.”

“And I you.”

“Did you find him? Cesare?”

Machiavelli nodded and gestured at his shoulder. “We found him, alright. He killed Micheletto. Shot him twice in the face at point-blank range.”

Volpe’s breath hissed between his teeth. “Christ. Cesare did this to you?” He ran a hand over his beloved’s wounded shoulder, shaking his head. “Cesare Borgia put a bullet through my boy?”

“Gilberto…”

“I’ll kill him.”

“He’s digging his own grave. Ezio’s gone after him.” Machiavelli gripped the back of the thief’s neck, pulling him close until their foreheads touched. “It won’t be long now. It’ll be over.”

They kissed again, slow and soft, soothing through touch the fears that words could never assuage.

“And what then?” Volpe asked in a murmur, trailing gentle caresses up and down Machiavelli’s sides. “When this is all over? What becomes of us?”

“That,” Machiavelli replied, taking Volpe’s face in his hands, and he didn’t flinch away from the ache in his shoulder, “is up to us to decide.”


	26. Preference

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pwppy pwp is pwppy. 
> 
> But belly kisses though.

Volpe wondered—in a vague, disinterested sort of way—when he had gone from being the fuck-er to the fuck-ee—or whatever one would call the correct vernacular in a situation such as this. It was hard to focus on linguistics when he had Niccolò’s cock buried deep inside of him, the younger man’s hips rolling against his ass in a torturously slow, steady rhythm, drawing out their coupling. Volpe was in no great hurry to come—it was only mid-afternoon, it was hot outside, and he wasn’t hungry just yet—but he was painfully hard hard and sticky with sweat and there was only so much teasing he could take.

“Niccolò,” he moaned, tossing his head against the sweat-soaked pillows, “harder, please.”

“Why?” The soft inquiry dripped like honey from Niccolò’s mouth. He let his head stay tipped back, eyes closed, revelling in pure sensation. He rolled his hips forward, slow and sweet, relishing Volpe’s slick skin on his.

The thief wriggled, pushing back against his lover’s hips, grinding on the marble-hard length of his cock and smiling faintly when Niccolò groaned. “I want to come.”

Another groan, disappointed and childish. “Can’t you wait? This feels so good.”

Volpe sighed. “Come here.”

Niccolò lowered his chin and opened his eyes, looking down at his prone lover and shivering at the expression on Volpe’s face, brooding and wanton—bedroom eyes, violet and beautiful. He shifted his weight forward, careful to keep his length hilted in his lover’s ass, and stretched out languidly over Volpe’s body. He pushed his hips forward, gasping sharply at the pressure of the new angle.

“That’s good too, hm?” Volpe squeezed both hands against Niccolò’s ass, pulling him closer, before wrapping his thighs around the younger man’s hips. “Please fuck me?”

“What do you think I was doing before?” Niccolò grumbled, but he was already pumping his hips a little harder, a little faster, each clench of Volpe’s muscles around his cock drawing soft moans from them both. Volpe’s arms wrapped around his back, nails digging into sweaty skin, scoring angry red marks around Niccolò’s shoulders.

“Oh God—oh, fuck—Niccolò— _Niccolò_ —”

They kissed clumsily, smothering moans between swollen lips. Volpe rolled them over with practiced ease, reseating himself on Niccolò’s cock with a grunt and riding him with the same brutal slowness with which his lover had punished him. Niccolò released a long, heavy breath, wrapping both hands around Volpe’s cock, but he didn’t pump, letting the hard length slide against his palms with each hitch of the thief’s hips.

“I thought you wanted me to fuck you?”

“Changed my mind.” Volpe gasped sharply when the swollen head of Niccolò’s cock bumped up against his prostate. He lifted his hips a little and settled down again, stroking the sweet spot once more, biting at his lips. Niccolò smiled indulgently, folding one arm beneath his head and trailing the fingertips of his free hand up and down Volpe’s shaft, circling the weeping tip before following the darkened veins back down to the base.

“You’re so fickle.”

“Oh, shut up…” Volpe leaned forward and kissed him, rolling them onto their sides and gasping into his lover’s mouth when Niccolò fucked into him. “Oh, fuck—right there—Niccolò, _tesoro_ —”

Niccolò pulled him closer, cupping both hands around Volpe’s ass and pressing his face into the older man’s shoulder. “Again.”

“ _T-Tesoro_ —”

Another hard pump of his hips, Volpe crying out wordlessly, clutching him. “Again.”

“ _Tesoro!_ Please—Niccolò—”

His pleas disintegrated into incoherency, hard gasps forced from his throat with each plunge of Niccolò’s cock into his body, stroking him just right, deep, deeper—Niccolò slid a finger inside him, searching, pressed down on his prostate without stopping the smooth rolling of his hips. Volpe groaned through the first hard wave of orgasm, thrusting his erection against Niccolò’s firm stomach. The sensation of warm ejaculate on his skin was enough to push Niccolò over the edge, and he came with a hard grunt, pushing into Volpe’s ass and holding firm, felt himself release three times into his beloved’s body while pleasure held him in a vice grip.

They held one another long after the high ebbed away, legs tangled, sweat making the sheets stick to their skin. At length Volpe coughed, placing a hand on Niccolò’s hip to unstick his cock from his lover’s stomach.

“...Fuck.”

Niccolò grunted his agreement, letting Volpe separate them with gentle hands before rolling onto his back and resting an arm over his eyes. “I told you it was too hot for that.”

“But it was _really_ good.” Volpe sat up and wet his hands in the basin of water at their bedside, running his palms over the back of his neck; drenched curls clung to his skin. “And what else are we going to do? Go outside and bake on the street?”

“God forbid.”

Volpe smiled, settling back down on the bed and kicking the sheets away before leaning over his lover’s prone form, trailing kisses up his belly.

“Gilberto, that’s disgusting.”

“Why?”

“You just came all over me.”

Volpe lifted his head, inspecting his lover’s torso, and tapped him at the lowest point on his sternum. “I got you here.” He pressed his mouth to the softness below Niccolò’s navel. “You’re clean here…”

Niccolò chuckled. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I like you sweaty.” A bite, slow and gentle, right above the arch of the younger man’s pelvis. Volpe soothed the teeth marks with his tongue.

“If you’re going to eat me, get on with it.”

“I could. You are looking particularly delicious.” Volpe climbed back up to the head of the bed, hooking a leg over Niccolò’s hips and snuggling in closer to his lover. It was also too hot for cuddling, but Volpe liked the heat, liked the way Niccolò’s skin stuck to his. “Do you prefer fucking me to being fucked?”

“I think it’s all fucking, Gilberto,” the younger man mumbled into the thief’s hair. “I don’t have a preference.”

“I don’t either.” Volpe trailed his fingertips through the soft curls of dark hair on Niccolò’s chest. “I do like having you under me, though. Regardless of who is fucking whom.”

“Noted.”

Volpe grinned, pinching an already bruised nipple and receiving a quiet grunt in return. “I like mounting you.”

“I’m not a horse.” Niccolò swatted Volpe’s hand away and sat up, running his hands through his sticky hair. “I need a bath before I go back to court.” He gingerly palpated his neck, fingertips skating over a pronounced bruise on his throat. “Did you leave marks?”

“Nope.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Volpe said, mock-offended, and snickered as Niccolò slid out of bed.


	27. Attraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Niccolò is sweaty and Volpvolp is a perv.

The sharp _clang_ of steel on steel made la Volpe wince. Ezio and Machiavelli circled one another, breathing hard, the quivering tips of their blades meeting across the space between them. Ezio lunged; Machiavelli dodged back instead of parrying, let Ezio’s inertia carry him a little too far forward before jabbing at his ribs. Ezio blocked at the last moment and they backed away again, the hard thud of boots on the ground kicking up little patches of dust.

La Volpe stretched and scratched at his hood. This little cock-comparing contest had been entertaining for about an hour, but it was only so much fun to watch young men run themselves ragged. Ezio and Machiavelli had been butting heads from the moment the new assassin came to Venice, but both recognized that they would be stronger as a team, that the tension between them would force them both to work toward a more enlightened brotherhood. So, rather than waste endless hours slinging hard words, they wasted endless hours beating at one another with steel until one or the other was too tired to continue.

Foolish bravado. La Volpe watched impassively from his perch on a nearby bench. He’d seen Ezio fight before, enough that he could predict the assassin’s moves almost perfectly. Machiavelli, though—this boy.  Niccolò. An old soul in a (beautiful) young body. He was ten years Ezio’s junior, but he matched him stride for stride with both sword and words. Mario Auditore called him a genius.

Volpe called him highly fuckable.

“Good,” Ezio said at last, holding up a hand and mopping sweat from his brow. “Good. You’re very good.”

“I think you won.” Machiavelli sheathed his sword and let Ezio briskly shake his hand. “That uppercut five minutes ago would have killed me had this been more than training.”

“But it wasn’t, and you did well.” Ezio clapped him on the shoulder and turned to scan the courtyard, his gaze landing on the thief. “Volpe. Did you need something?”

“No.” Volpe canted his head to the side and smiled. “Just observing.”

“And?”

The thief opened his hands and shrugged. “You said what needed to be said. He’s good. Stronger than you were at that age, anyway.”

Ezio bit his thumb. “Hey— _fottiti, cazzo_.”

Volpe slid off the bench and joined them in the courtyard. He liked the wariness in Machiavelli’s gaze as he approached. Good. Let the boy stay on his toes. “Are you open to advice?”

“Please,”  Niccolò replied, and drew his sword.

“Your stance is strong, but strong will make you tire more quickly.” Volpe stood behind him and placed his hands on the younger man’s hips, and he could have purred at the way that young body tightened. “Keep your hips centered with the midline of your chest. You’ll notice that your legs don’t tense so much.” He slid a hand down and touched the boy’s thigh—loosened, but still firm and sinewy and Volpe’s mouth almost watered. “See?”

“Yes,”  Niccolò said, but there was tension in his voice. The boy was purportedly a genius—surely he could feel the intent in the thief’s hands. All the better. Volpe hated misunderstandings. “Anything else?”

“Your shoulders.” Volpe rested both hands against  Niccolò’s back, on his shoulderblades, and ran both thumbs up the midline of his back. “There—feel? It’s too tight. Lower them slightly. Keep them loose. As you strike, twist your arm and tighten only at the moment of impact. Let the motion confer power to the strike. You should pull the blade through the air, not push it.”

Oh, God, but the boy had a lovely body. He wasn’t as big as Ezio, nowhere close, but his back was taut and muscled, and his hips fit deliciously between Volpe’s hands. He tilted his head a little to look back at the thief, lips and cheeks pinked from exertion, sweat on his brow and in his raven hair. Their eyes met and Volpe could taste the intensity between them, the heat, the way the younger man’s skin prickled beneath his oh-so-helpful fingertips.

“Thank you,”  Niccolò said, and stepped away, returning his sword to its sheathe and inclining his head. “I’ll remember that.”

“If that’s all, both of you should join me for lunch,” Ezio said brightly, oblivious (as always) to the tension in the air. “I’m feeling half-starved. Machiavelli?”

“Yes—me too.” The younger man swallowed, the muscles of his throat pushing his anxiety down toward his guts, and Volpe wanted nothing more than to lean in and run his tongue along that quickening pulse. He saw  Niccolò’s cheeks (and ears, how precious) flush before he turned away to hurry after Ezio.

Volpe trailed behind them at a leisurely walk, grinning at the boy’s departing back. That quick sampling of the young man’s body wouldn’t satisfy for long. The game was on.


	28. Chase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Volpvolp is sweaty and Niccolò is a perv.

Volpe vaulted the roof overhang, caught it with one hand, and swung into the alcove hidden below, pressing himself against the wall and sucking in a sharp breath when two recruits sailed overhead, coming down hard on the opposite roof, rolling, and jumping to their feet and moving on, shouting to one another. Volpe exhaled, sinking onto his ass and running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. He only gave himself five minutes’ rest before he got to his feet and scaled down the wall, slipping into the crowd below, scanning the rooftops for the next set of pursuers.

His constant posturing and bragging were finally catching up to him. Perhaps out of irritation at his comrade’s lack of humility, Ezio had issued a challenge to his recruits: catch la Volpe. Whoever could do it would be awarded a particularly lovely contract, an easy mission in the beautiful city of Prague that promised a huge payoff, and the recruits had all but clamored over one another for it. And now all fifteen of them were on the streets of Rome, completely ignoring their other duties in favor of being the one who could catch the fastest and smartest thief in all of Italy.

Recruits were easy enough to avoid; they were still clumsy and predictable. Volpe climbed back onto the rooftops and paused long enough to scan his surroundings. It wasn’t recruits he was worried about—it was the man who had shoved him up against a wall and slid two oil-slicked fingers into his ass and prepared him roughly before releasing him with a whispered promise: “I’m playing too, Gilberto.”

Volpe shivered and looked over his shoulder. No one in sight. He set off at a run—better to keep moving than sit around waiting for someone to find him. He dodged a few guards with ease, did a lap around the buildings surrounding the Pantheon. The Colosseum was apparently off-limits, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to hide there for the next two or three days, or however long it would take for his lover to give up on finding him.

He made his way toward the Rosa in Fiore more or less unmolested—one recruit caught sight of him, but Volpe dropped into the crowd and shook his pursuer with ease. He skulked his way along the back streets, unease making his skin prickle and his hair stand on end. He couldn’t shake the feeling that—

A gloved hand covered his mouth and nose, an arm snaked around his waist, and Volpe lost his footing as he was dragged unceremoniously into the ruins of a collapsed house. He was facedown in the dirt before he could so much as shout, and his assailant tied his wrists behind his back with practiced ease. Volpe began to struggle, and with a vicious twist of his hips managed to roll onto his back, wincing when he landed on his bound arms.

He found himself staring straight up into  Niccolò Machiavelli’s grinning face.

“Oh, _fuck_.”

“Oh fuck indeed.”  Niccolò bent to kiss him roughly, hands deftly pulling Volpe’s hose down his hips and to his knees. Fingers thrust into his ass, stretching him, and Volpe arched up with a sharp gasp into his lover’s mouth.

“Ungh—fuck— Niccolò—”

“Hush.”  Niccolò flipped him onto his front and hauled him upright, pushing him up against the nearest wall. Volpe heard the soft _clink_ of a belt buckle coming undone and shuddered. “So, are you coming with me to Prague?”

“Why? Just to add insult to injury?” He felt Niccolò’s cock press against his ass and closed his eyes, rocking back into his lover with a soft moan.

“It’s only fair.” Fingers pressed into Volpe’s mouth, forcing his lips to part. “Suck.” The leather of  Niccolò’s glove felt rough against Volpe’s skin;  Niccolò held the thief’s ass open and thrust in with a grunt, leaning forward over the older man’s back as he shifted and rolled his hips, getting comfortable. “Fuck, that’s tight. Do you need more oil?”

Volpe shook his head, unable to speak around  Niccolò’s fingers in his mouth, and released a whimper at the first hard thrust.  Niccolò pushed him up against the wall a little more firmly and fucked into him again, exhaling slowly through his mouth to keep from moaning outright. He withdrew his hand from Volpe’s lips to run an appreciative touch over the thief’s ass. On a whim, he landed a slap against the sensitive skin, chuckling when Volpe snarled at him.

“Was anyone else close?”

“No.” Volpe jerked against another hard thrust, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his forehead against the cool stone wall. “How did you— _ungh_ —find me?”

“I know you, Gilberto.”  Niccolò grasped the thief’s cock in both hands and squeezed, pumping him languidly in time with the motion of his hips. Volpe moaned for him, panting, one violet eye opening to glare at his lover over his shoulder. “You were a fool to think you could hide from me. Now then.” He leaned close and pressed his smiling mouth to Volpe’s jaw, hands tightening around the thief’s waist, and drew his hips back, threatening the next plunge. “Stop talking.”

A hard thrust pushed a gasp from Volpe’s mouth, but he didn’t speak again.


	29. Toy II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not ashamed, but I'm not not ashamed.

Niccolò was in a political theory lecture when the thing turned on. He froze halfway down a page of notes, pen poised above paper, eyes widening in horror when the dildo wedged comfortably in his ass began to vibrate. He began to write again with slow, deliberate care, but his fingers were trembling. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out and opened the message.

* * *

Gil

How good?

* * *

 

Niccolò grit his teeth and tapped out a reply.

* * *

Gil

I fucking hate you

<3 <3 <3

Turn it off

Nope

Then quit texting me

* * *

 

He locked the screen and stuck the phone back into his pocket. Fuck. He could do this. This was not an issue. But the intensity suddenly increased and he squeezed his pen so hard he almost snapped it in half. Fuck, it was good. The thing pressed right into his prostate and stimulated him in all the right ways. He struggled to sit still—he wanted to move with it, rock against it, wanted to ride the inanimate object inside his body. **  
**

And then he was getting hard, and his professor droning on about  John Locke seemed a million miles away.

“Niccolò.” Leonardo (fuck that fucker into fucking oblivion) prodded him in the shoulder. “You alright?”

“Yes,” Niccolò replied through gritted teeth.

“You sure?”

“Shut up.”

Leonardo blinked at his friend’s uncharacteristic snappiness, and a slow grin spread across his face. “ _No._ You don’t—”

“Leonardo, _seriously_ shut up.” Niccolò got to his feet and all but scuttled sideways, pushing Leonardo’s chair in and stumbling around it into the center aisle. Thank Christ they’d chosen to sit toward the back of the lecture hall; it was a short walk to the exit, and he garnered only a few curious looks as he left.

The bathroom seemed a million miles away. He was aching by the time he locked himself into a stall, and he outright moaned as he shimmied his pants down his hips and wrapped a hand around his dick, stuffing his knuckles into his mouth. He wanted to get off. Now. Immediately. He shuffled backward and pressed his ass into the wall, shuddering when the dildo slid in deeper, clattering noisily against the tiles. He pulled his pants up just enough to get the fabric between the toy and the wall, muffling the sound, and began to move his hips in slow circles, grinding back against Gil’s most nefarious plot to date.

His phone buzzed and kept buzzing, and he dug around in his sagging pocket and withdrew it shakily, pulling hard on his cock with his free hand. A glance at the name on the screen confirmed his suspicions, and with a sigh (hitched with a moan) he cradled it to his ear.

“G-Gil—”

“Baby,” his boyfriend all but crooned, and Niccolò bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood to keep from crying out. “Having fun?”

“F-Fuck you.”

“I’d like to. But as you’re there and I’m here—” The intensity increased and Niccolò moaned outright, leaning forward, curling up on himself and shuddering. “Is it good?”

No point in lying to him. “Yeah.”

“Are you gonna cum?”

“Yes.” Niccolò squeezed his eyes shut, running his thumb over the pearly fluid beading at the tip of his cock.

“Where are you?”

“B-Bathroom.”

“ _Fuck._ Talk to me, babe—how’s it feel?”

Niccolò swallowed several times, thumbing his tip almost too hard, using his precum to slick his slow strokes. “Dirty,” he said at last. “It just feels dirty.”

“You want to cum?”

“Yes—fuck, Gil—” He muffled a sob against his vest, biting down hard on the cotton and squeezing his eyes shut. He was so hard it hurt, his ass ached, his lip stung, and Gil kept murmuring sweetly in his ear, hot, filthy little nothings that Niccolò could feel on his skin, on his mouth, on his cock.

“I love you.” Gil broke the stream of profanity with something that was scarcely above a whisper. “I love you, beautiful.”

Niccolò shuddered and came, spilling messily over his hand, whimpering into his shoulder when the vibrations turned up almost to the point of pain, Gilberto pushing him over the edge remotely, from seven miles away. He rested his weight against the wall, knees trembling, riding out the last ebbing waves with soft grunts and a weak mumble of Gil’s name, his sweetheart’s chuckle softening the sharp edge of pained pleasure. The dildo mercifully turned off, and Niccolò groaned in relief, struggling to relax around its insistent intrusion in his body.

“Can I take it out?”

“That wasn’t the deal.”

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck.” Niccolò laughed weakly, wincing as he looked down at the mess on his hand. “Shit. I’ve gotta clean this up.”

“No one came in?”

“No. Thank God.”

“Shame. I’ve kinda been hoping you’re a closet exhibitionist.”

“I’m hanging up now. Thanks for nothing, asshole.”

“Could you go again?”

“No, stupid, don’t even joke about that.” Niccolò jumped when the dildo gave a threatening little buzz. “Gil, _don’t_ , I swear to God I will—” But then it turned on and he slumped against the wall, moaning into the phone while Gil’s chuckle floated through the speaker.


	30. Scrip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trans* Niccolò, also Ziio is a doctor.
> 
> See also: Shaun was THIS CLOSE to being the pharmacy tech.

“You know the drill, kiddo.” Dr. Z—Ziio to her patients—sat on her stool, pulling on her gloves with a snap and patting the paper-covered bed with a wide smile. “Show me those guns.”

Niccolo smiled and sat, taking a deep breath and releasing it before tugging his shirt over his head. It still surprised him, on occasion, how easily it slipped off without a bra or binder to grab at it. Ziio finished tying back her curtain of dark hair and leaned in to inspect the twin scars situated an inch below his nipples, “hmm”ing to herself and drumming her fingertips on her knees.

“Hmm?” Niccolò parroted, arching a brow. “Is that a good ‘hmm’ or a bad ‘hmm’?”

“It’s an impressed ‘hmm,’ is what it is.” She sat back and grinned up at him. “You’ve been lifting, huh?”

He blushed and nodded, and she laughed as she rolled her stool back to her desk and pulled out her prescription pad with a flourish.

“Told you that you’d bulk up quick with the testosterone. You should still have another refill on this, but I’m going to renew it now while I’ve got you in here, just in case, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“No problems injecting?”

“Gil helps me.”

She nodded, scribbling her signature and tearing the top sheet off the pad. “Still using at least two forms of birth control? Testosterone won’t keep you from getting pregnant, you know that, right?”

“Yes,” Niccolò sighed, rolling his eyes. “You tell me every time.”

“Look, kiddo, some day I hope society is ready for the idea of a pregnant man, but not yet. And I’d like you to keep getting the surgeries you want without complications.” She handed him the renewed prescription and he tucked it into his pocket. “Things going good with you and Gil?”

“Are you a relationship guru now?”

“No, but forming relationships is a big part of anyone’s transition. He introduces you as his boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“He makes you feel good about your body?”

“Christ, Ziio—yes, okay? He’s great. About all of it.”

Ziio smiled and patted his knee. “Alright, kiddo, alright. Just checking. Well, you look good—everything’s healing up nicely. I would have preferred that you maybe wait another week before hitting the gym.”

“I wanted to. I didn’t want to—you know, fuck anything up.” Niccolò rubbed a hand against his chest, gently palpating the newly formed pectoral muscles. “I was just—tired of seeing this scrawny little thing in the mirror.”

“Hey, it’s alright. You know your body. If something feels wrong, stop, but I think you’re fine to keep working out. Just no dead-lifting four hundred pounds for a little while, alright?” She smiled and pinched his cheek. “Any questions before I boot you?”

“Er—yeah. One. I tried looking it up online, but I didn’t even know how to… phrase it.”

“Shoot.”

Niccolo grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh—so I don’t have a prostate.”

“Very astute observation.”

“Oh, shut up. Gil and I were just wondering if there’s a way to make—you know” —he leaned forward and mouthed ‘ _anal sex_ ’— “feel good for me.”

“Oh, Christ. Kiddo. There is this magical publication called _Cosmopolitan_ —”

Niccolo groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “Please understand that purchasing and reading _Cosmopolitan_ is not going to make me feel like a man. Repeat—not.”

“Easy on the gender roles there, kiddo, you don’t need a dick to be a dickhead,” she chided, and turned back to her scripts pad. “Okay. Lesson one is lube.”

“Oh, fuck, please don’t give me a laundry list—” He sighed. She was already writing.

“Lesson two is practice. Get a buttplug. A nice one. Get one that you can pump up to bigger sizes. Do not just try to sit down on his dick and expect it to work. Lesson three is supplementation. Get tingly lube, and buy one of those cock rings that has, oh shit, what’s it called—a butterfly? Something that will give you clitoral stimulation while he’s in the back door. Lesson four is preparation, which is really just more lube plus using his mouth and fingers to stimulate all these delicate little nerve endings near the anus—” Ziio looked up and laughed outright at the expression on Niccolò’s face—something between utter mortification and intrigue. “Okay, sorry. Have him do whatever he does to stimulate prostate-possessing partners. I just wouldn’t expect to get an orgasm out of the deal, on your end, at least. But if he’s not a shit, he should get you squared away after he’s done, right?”

“Right,” Niccolò said numbly, accepting the second scrip sheet and stuffing it into his other pocket.

* * *

Gil laughed his ass off, recovered somewhat, and then laughed some more.

“Okay, it’s really not funny,” Niccolò muttered, hiding his face in his hands while his idiot boyfriend recommenced laughing wildly for the third time. An old lady waiting for a prescription for seasonal eczema shot them an affronted look, and Niccolò offered her an apologetic wince while Gilberto tried to regain control.

“Sorry,” he snickered, wiping his eyes. “Sorry, sorry, Christ. Baby, you should have just asked me.”

“Your universe is a little—how do I put this? Prostate-centric.”

Gil chuckled and wrapped an arm around his partner’s neck, drawing Niccolò close and pressing a kiss to his rough cheek. “Love you. Hey—that beard’s coming in nice.”

“I just forgot to shave.” Because he was still getting the hang of incorporating it into his daily routine.

“Why not grow it out a little? This is kind of one of the trade secrets of dick ownership, but a little stubble on the balls during a blowjob, _man_ —”

“Ugh!” Niccolò squirmed away and clapped his hands over his ears. “ _Gil!_ ”

“Um—” The bespectacled pharmacy guy appeared at the counter, squinting down at the prescription in his hand, frowning a little at the hysterically giggly mess named Gil. “Ms.—uh—Ma—?”

“That’s me,” Niccolò said quickly, hurrying to the counter before the wrong name came out of the guy’s mouth—damn, he wished it was easier to get insurance information corrected. “Me. It should be a refill for HRT?”

“Oh, um, well, we have that,” the tech said, pushing his glasses up his nose, a furious blush spreading across his cheeks. “We don’t have, er, well—” Red as a beet, he handed Niccolò the scrip.

_Lube_

_Buttplug_

_Cock ring_

_Lube+touching_

When Niccolò hastily dug into his other pocket and produced the correct scrip, his face matched the tech’s, and that idiot Gilberto—in between kisses to the nape of his blushing lover’s neck—was laughing all over again.


	31. Rush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Niccolò and Volpe being daddies. That is all.
> 
> Modern AU.

Niccolò lowered the baby as cautiously as he might have set down an active bomb.

“Careful,” Gil hissed from behind him, hovering in the doorway.

“I know,” Niccolò replied through gritted teeth, and slowly removed his hands from the little bundle. The infant squirmed a little, feet pushing against the blankets that swaddled him, and then settled down. “Oh, thank God. Thank you, Bernardo, _thank you_ —”

“He’s down,” Gil said, and grabbed his husband by the back of his shirt, yanking him back out of the baby’s room. He closed the door with the utmost delicacy before he was upon his partner again, throwing Niccolò up against the opposite wall and pressing urgent kisses to his mouth.

“Mm—Gil—”

“Shut up and fuck me.” Gil pulled Niccolò’s shirt out of his pants, undoing his belt and shoving his trousers down his hips.

Niccolò leaned into the next kiss with a quiet groan, raking his nails down Gil’s sides and tilting his head back when that hot mouth landed on the side of his neck, sucking marks into his skin before moving along his jawbone. It felt so _good_ to be touched, to have Gil’s hands on him for the first time in _so long_.

“How much time do we have?”

“Twenty, thirty minutes. Maybe.”

“You sure you don’t want to sleep a little instead?”

Niccolò shook his head, looping an arm around Gil’s shoulders and pushing down on him. “Every second you aren’t sucking my dick is a huge waste of what little time we have.”

Gil chuckled and went to his knees, unbuttoning his husband’s pants and smoothing a hand over the softly swollen bulge in his crotch. “It’s been way too long.”

“Perks of having a child.” Niccolò cupped a hand to the back of Gil’s head and rolled his hips, trying to urge that mouth closer. “Please, love…”

Gil tugged his boxers down, licking his lips as he pulled Niccolò’s half-hard dick out of his underwear before leaning in to gently mouth at him. Niccolò choked out a groan, letting his head hit the wall with a thud when that tongue swept along the underside of the tip. Gil licked him to full hardness before going down on him, hands roughly groping his thighs and ass, man-handling him while Niccolò moaned at his attentions. He could have spent forever letting Gil blow him, enjoying the slick drag of those swollen lips around his shaft and that wet tongue on his tip, but the clock was ticking. Their monstrous little angel wouldn’t sleep forever.

“Come here,” Niccolò gasped out, tugging on Gil’s shirt.

“Mm.” Gil pulled back with an obscene wet pop, running his tongue across his darkened lips. “Don’t you want—”

“I want to come,” Niccolò said hoarsely, beckoning again, and Gil got to his feet. They pressed into one another, a soft caress of mouths and tongues before Niccolò opened Gil’s pants. He spat in one palm and grasped Gil’s cock, jerking him hard and fast while his husband leaned in to kiss him once more. Gil’s hand grabbed him, stroked him, squeezing the base of his dick almost painfully hard before sliding his palm up and down the full length.

Gil was gasping in his ear, but Niccolò still heard the whine.

“Wait—”

“What?”

“Stop for a second.” Niccolò planted a hand on the broad (hairy, gorgeous, fucking _sexy,_ and what he wouldn't give to just spend hours reacquainting himself with his husband's body) expanse of Gil’s chest and made some space between them, trying to catch his breath and focus more on listening than on how painfully hard he was. A few seconds passed—he was almost feeling hopeful when he heard it again, a soft, plaintive little cry.

“Oh my God,” Gil groaned, pressing his face into Niccolò’s shoulder. “Oh my _God_ , can’t we just—”

“No, Gil.”

“But—”

“No.” Niccolò stepped out of his pants and pulled up his boxers with a wince, even the soft cotton too much stimulation on a blood-hot cock. He hobbled into the baby’s bedroom, sighing and scooping their little son into his arms. “Alright, alright—I’ve got you, little man, easy there…”

“I hate him,” Gil said, mouth drawn down into a pout. He wrapped an arm around Niccolò’s waist and stroked the soft spot on top of the baby’s head. “I mean, I love the hell out of him and I’d rather be dead than have to live without him, but I hate him sometimes.”

“When he’s sixteen and trying to decide which of us he hates more, I’m going to tell him you said that.” Niccolò turned his head and accepted a kiss, sweet and chaste and not at all what he wanted or needed, but he’d take what he could get. “Come on. Your turn to carry him around the house for three hours.”

Gil sighed and accepted the little bundle, following Niccolò out into the hall and pressing his mouth to Bernardo’s soft spot. “Just kidding about the hating you thing,” he murmured. Bernardo kicked him in the stomach and cried louder.


	32. Fantasy

Volpe tugged at the chains that bound his arms over his head, shivering when his bare ass touched the cold stone wall behind him. The Bargello offered little by way of comfort; prisoners cried out in nearby cells, most heinous criminals imprisoned justly.

And, from a certain perspective, Volpe was imprisoned justly as well. It wasn’t a perspective he shared.

“Well, well. La Volpe. It’s about time you graced us with your presence.”

The thief lifted his head, a hot breath escaping his mouth when he caught sight of the man lounging against the door of his cell. “Machiavelli…”

The younger man smiled indulgently, canting his head to the side. “I see they’ve already prepared you for me.”

Volpe licked his lips and glanced down at his nude body. “Prepared?”

“Mm, yes.” Machiavelli unlocked the door and stepped inside, closing the bars behind him with a resounding clang. He approached Volpe with nothing short of a saunter. “You know things, don’t you, Volpe? Things of interest to us. To me. But I know that conventional methods of… questioning… are less than effective with you. Aren’t they?”

“Usually,” Volpe replied, lifting an eyebrow. “What do you intend to do about it?”

Machiavelli grinned, stopping in front of the thief and crouching down to meet his eyes. “You’ll tell me what I want to know, thief. But first you’ll suffer.” He reached out and cupped Volpe’s chin, tracing a thumb over his mouth. “And you’ll enjoy it.”

Volpe glared up at him, weighing his options. At length he parted his lips and ran his tongue along the pad of Machiavelli’s thumb, moaning quietly when the younger man stepped closer and slid two fingers into his captive’s mouth.

“Suck,” Machiavelli commanded in a murmur, his tone low and dark, and a slow twist of his wrist forced Volpe’s head back. The thief pulled in vain against his bindings, mouth watering, lips swollen, heart racing—

“Stand up.”

The thief stumbled to his feet, turning and placing his hands on the wall. Machiavelli pressed up against him, grinding against his bare ass and tugging experimentally on the chains that kept his wrists manacled. Those fingers forced past his lips again, stroking along his tongue, tugging on his lower lip before retreating and slipping into the cleft of his ass.

“ _Ooh_ — _Signor_ Machiavelli—”

“Hush. Spread your legs.” A hand landed against his ass, the slap ringing through the cell, and Volpe gasped and jumped. “You like that?”

“Yes—again—”

Machiavelli acquiesced, and Volpe mewled at the pain, pulling hard on his bindings. Impatient, Machiavelli spat on his palm and rubbed the thief’s hole briefly before pressing the tip of his cock against him. “Are you ready?”

“ _Signor_ —please—be gentle—”

“Ah, ah. I’ll have you begging soon, lovely, but not for gentleness.”

Volpe cried out when he was breached, eleven inches of cock pressed hot and hard into his body, leaving him writhing against the younger man, whining when another slap landed against his searing skin.

“Gilberto,” Machiavelli husked in his ear, grasping his cock in a brutal grip and pumping him hard, “Gilberto. Stop kicking me.”

“Harder…”

“Gilberto, wake up—”

“ _Signor_ Machiavelli, please—”

“ _Gilberto!”_

The thief jerked awake and shouted when a pillow came down on the side of his head, sitting bolt upright. Niccolò scowled beside him, hair tousled from sleep, dark circles underlining his eyes.

“What happened?” Volpe slurred out, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes with a soft groan.

“I suspect you were dreaming,” Niccolò retorted. “You wouldn’t stop kicking me.”

“Dreaming…?” Volpe paused, trying to assemble his scattered thoughts. “Oh, God. I was _dreaming_.”

“Yes. Glad we’ve cleared that up.” Niccolò lay back down, drawing the blankets up over his shoulders with a yawn. “Please go back to sleep.”

“ _Tesoro_ , but—but this _dream_ …” Shaking his head, the thief curled up against Niccolò’s back, wrapping an arm around his waist and drawing him close. “Christ, it was—I was imprisoned in the Bargello—and you were, I don’t know, interrogating me?”

“That’s fascinating, Gilberto. Now go to sleep.”

“And you spanked me.”

“Delightful. Sleep.”

“ _And_ you had an eleven-inch cock.”

Niccolò sat up and looked down at his lover, eyebrows raised. Volpe just smiled and shrugged.

“It was good.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake…” The younger man shoved Volpe away and lay back down, shaking his head in disgust. “You’re absolutely profane. I’m going to sleep.”

“But, _tesoro_ ,” Volpe whispered, sliding a hand between the assassin’s thighs and cupping him gently. “You can’t get me that hard and then leave me wanting.”

“ _I_ didn’t do anything. Take your hands off me.”

“Will you fuck me? Please?”

“Gilber _to_ —”

“Just suck me? Just a little?”

Niccolò groaned—in spite of himself, the warmth of Gilberto’s hand felt... tremendous. He rolled over and pushed Volpe back against the bed, leaning down to kiss him wetly before lowering his head to his lover’s lap, ignoring Volpe's purr of delight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nobody measured anything in inches back then.


	33. Spontaneity

There was something erotic about watching Volpe work. Machiavelli didn’t know what it was—the nimble movement of his fingers, perhaps, or the wicked, devious smile that curved his wide mouth. Mm, no—probably the way the muscles of his thighs and ass coiled as he slipped away from his target, twirling a newfound trinket around his finger, slipping a few extra coins into his cloak.

Oh, God. Niccolò  bit at his lower lip, sucking in a breath. He trailed a few steps behind la Volpe, watching the thief idly pick at a cardinal’s pocket, liberating a golden crucifix. Fuck. Now was not the time to be entertaining these thoughts. They had work to do, recruits to supervise, they were meeting Ezio at the Colosseo within the hour—but Volpe looked back at him, flashed him a broad smile, and Niccolò’s hose were suddenly uncomfortably tight.

“Are you alright, Machia?” Volpe lifted an eyebrow, reigning in his wide strides until they were level.

“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Mm. How should I know? You just seem… tense.”

Niccolò glanced sideways at the older man, tongue in his cheek. God, but Volpe was lovely. Bronzed skin, curls the color of pitch, violet eyes that cut through to his core. He licked his lips and leaned in a little closer, placing a hand on Volpe’s lower back.

“I want you.”

Volpe grinned. “Now?”

“Right now.”

“Well. An interesting development, to be sure. And how would you have me?”

Oh, _God_. How wouldn’t he? He leaned a little closer, speaking into his lover's ear. “Beneath me. Your ass open and slick. Or on your knees, your mouth on my cock.”

A hand between his legs, cupping his member. “You’re hard, _tesoro_.”

“I’m aware.” Machiavelli grasped his hand and tugged him toward a nearby alley. “Come here.”

Volpe followed him with a disarming smile, and laughed when Niccolò pushed him up against a wall and kissed him. The younger man groaned, raking his hands through the thief’s dark curls, biting Volpe’s lower lip when hands cupped his ass.

“Don’t touch me…”

“Oh? Why not?”

Niccolò grabbed Volpe’s wrists and pinned them to the wall. “It’s not your turn.”

“Is _that_ how it is...”

“Yes.” Machiavelli loosened his grip. “Keep them there.”

“Of course, _Messere._ ” Volpe grinned, his eyes overbright, tone teasing. “But please be gentle, _Messere_ —I’ve never had a man.”

Niccolò bit the thief’s throat to keep from laughing. Volpe, a virgin. Imagine. “You’re a fool.”

“Yes, but I'm your fool.” Volpe lowered a devious hand and cupped the rude bulge between Niccolò’s legs. “Now, I believe there was some mention of your cock and my mouth?”

Machiavelli caught the offending hand and pinned it back against the wall, rearranging his smiling features into a scowl. “Only if you behave.”

“Ah, but, _amore mio_ —”

“Quiet.” Machiavelli kissed him, forcing his mouth open, and the thief spoke no more.


	34. Beginning

They weren’t in love—not quite. Not yet. Stolen moments and whispered kisses and secret trysts didn't _quite_ a courtship make. But there was _something_ crawling around behind Volpe’s ribs as he sprinted through the tunnel, breath leaving him in great heaving gasps, hood and cape flying out behind him. He’d long since left behind the two recruits travelling with him. They were too slow, they held him back, and he had somewhere he desperately needed to be, someone he desperately needed to be _with_.

He threw a shoulder against the door at the end of the tunnel and burst gasping into their hideout. No one looked up when he entered—it was chaos, recruits running every which way, racing around trying to tend to their wounded. He heard Claudia’s voice above the din, reigning in some semblance of order. Just once—just _once_ —maybe her brother could complete a mission without alerting _all of Rome?_

Volpe pushed his way toward the back of the entry room, veering off into the armory. Three novices were patching one another’s injuries near the doorway, while two other people huddled against the back wall. Volpe’s heart leapt into his throat, and he crossed the room in a sprint.

Tessa Varzi and Niccolò Machiavelli both looked up at his haphazard approach. The girl was hurt; her head was already swathed in stained bandages, and the hand clutching her stitching needle trembled badly. Niccolò appeared to be in the process of taking it from her.

“Volpe,” he said by way of greeting, and then turned back to the novice. “Tessa, I can handle this.”

“But—Master—”

“Go,” he said, and Volpe was a little taken aback by the gentleness in his tone. “You’re injured. Have someone mend your head, and then go rest.”

She hesitated, but at Volpe’s nod she got shakily to her feet and staggered toward her comrades in the corner. Volpe dropped to his knees, catching Niccolò’s hand before he could hide his wounds.

“Just a bolt through the shoulder,” the assassin said quickly, flinching when Volpe opened his coat a tad too roughly. “Tessa already removed it, very clean—”

“Stop talking,” Volpe murmured, and kissed him. There were four other people in the room and he didn’t care if they saw. He had seen Niccolò take that bolt, seen him stagger and nearly fall if Tessa weren’t there to catch him, and the terror he had felt in those fleeting moments was monumental beyond description.

Niccolò softened against him, tangled a hand briefly in his hair and very gently licked at his mouth before drawing back. Volpe took up the needle and smoothed his coat open.

“It’s going to hurt.”

“I know— _mmn_.” Niccolò winced all the same when the needle pierced his skin, tightening his grip on Volpe’s cape. “Are you—”

“I’m fine. Don’t talk.” Volpe stitched him with infinite care, making small, neat sutures. He didn't rush. He cared about the quality of his work. He cared whether this skin bore scars. “I’m falling in love with you.”

Niccolò blinked at him, and then he laughed, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Is now really the time?”

“I can’t think of one better.”

Volpe knotted the last stitch and then leaned in for a second kiss, ran a hand up Niccolò’s chest and neck and cupped his jaw and tilted his head back. Niccolò was cautious, so cautious, the caress of his tongue was a brief and fleeting thing. Volpe licked boldly into his mouth, sucked at his swollen lower lip before pressing chaste kisses to his mouth and jaw. It felt so good to just _kiss_ him, to learn the taste of him.

“Tell me I’m not alone in feeling this way,” he murmured. He picked up the little bottle Tessa had left behind and applied a liberal amount of salve to the injury. With some beckoning Niccolò angled his torso so the thief could begin to stitch the ragged exit wound.

“No. I don’t think you are.” Niccolò seemed to struggle to breathe through the stitching—possibly because Tessa had had to cut the bolt free of his body, possibly because he still had the taste of Gilberto on his tongue. Possibly (probably) both. “Can we discuss this later?”

Volpe’s gaze darkened. He finished his patchwork with a flourish and leaned in to very gently kiss the raw, swollen skin. “Are you well enough to come to bed with me tonight?”

He sensed Niccolò’s smile—he didn’t need to see it to know it was there.

“I think I’ll manage.”

 


	35. Lash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Niccolò and Ezio both lash out at Volpe, albeit somewhat unconventionally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eziovelli? Trashy, nasty sex and Ezio having a profane mouth.
> 
> Lash has been expanded into a multichap fic of the same name.

Niccolò had had his share of big men, but he still flinched when Ezio’s stupidly thick cock breached his body, groaning when the older assassin’s hips pressed flush to his ass and hitched in deeply. Ezio expelled a warm breath against his throat, grunting as he shunted his hips backwards, trying to get comfortable.

“ _Fuck_. Even virgins aren't this tight.”

Well, he would know. “Women are— _nngh_ —built for this.” Niccolò grasped at the sheets above his head and gasped sharply when Ezio fucked into him, an experimental little thrust that pushed up against his over-sensitive prostate and made him see white. It ached so hard and so deep that he could swear he tasted Ezio in the back of his throat.

“H-Harder.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, you buffoon, now— _ungh_! Not _that_ hard!”

“Then be more specific!”

“What, you want a physical calculation of the appropriate force?”

Ezio sighed, pinning Niccolò with a hand on his chest and rocking into the younger man’s body. “You’re lucky you’re such a good—mm. Such a good fuck.”

“Ah—like that. There.” Niccolò tipped his head back, arching his hips up into the next hard thrust and moaning quietly. “ _There_.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Because that’s where it feels good, idiot.”

“No. Why you want this.”

Niccolò closed his eyes, trying to enjoy being so slick and so full, trying not to imagine anyone else’s hands or body or soft, sultry voice, certainly not thinking of “ _Tesoro_ ” in a whisper against his throat while they loved long nights away. Certainly not.

“I need a reason to want to fuck? Besides just wanting to fuck?”

“Yes.”

“And why is that?”

“Because usually you fuck Volpe,” Ezio murmured, and roughened his pace before Niccolò could retort, pounding into him and drawing hard gasps from the younger man’s mouth. “Mm. You loosened up pretty quickly. He must ride you hard.”

Niccolò snarled and tried to hit him, growling when Ezio grabbed both his wrists and pinned him to the bed, still fucking him into the mattress while the headboard thudded against the wall. Ezio bent his head and kissed him tongue-first, and it felt good but it didn’t feel right. Niccolò broke away and looked off to his left, biting his lip when he felt the first warm splashes of cum inside his body.

“Sorry,” Ezio mumbled, resting his head against the younger man’s shoulder and grinding against him with a weak little moan. “I’m not quite there yet.”

“Take your time.” Niccolò inhaled deeply, closing his eyes; Ezio’s firm belly was pressed up against his cock, smearing his precum all over that gloriously dark skin, leaving him debauched and glistening. “I should have fallen in love with you.”

“And I you. You make a pretty picture beneath me.” Ezio fucked into him roughly and Niccolò grunted with the force of it. “Why aren’t you with Volpe?”

“Please, Ezio. Just fuck me. Please. I don’t want to think about anything else.”

A pause, and then a hand dragged down the center of his chest, pausing to pinch his nipple. “Does he touch you like this?”

“Ezio—”

“Does he play with your cock when he takes you?”

“Ezio, _stop talking_ and just...”

Another kiss, deep and wet, and Niccolò’s head swam for air before Ezio pulled away and roughly licked at his panting mouth, biting Niccolò’s lower lip so sharply that he bled.

“He must love your mouth. Sweet. Soft.” A ragged grin and low chuckle. “Almost like a girl’s.”

“Fuck you.”

“Mm. Not so sweet as I thought. Be careful, I’ve punished sweeter mouths than yours.” Ezio smiled and leaned in close to whisper in his ear. “Do you get down to your knees for him? Hm? Suck on him, let him fuck your throat? Has he ever come on your mouth? Not in. _On._ ”

Niccolò meant to swear at him, meant to tell him to go to hell and fuck himself all the way there, but when he opened his mouth he moaned instead, and he felt his cock swell against Ezio’s stomach.

“Does he lick you? Bite you? How does he prepare you—with his fingers, holding you open, stretching you, or does he use his tongue? Kiss his way down your body, lave his tongue between your legs, get you nice and wet before he makes you his?”

Oh, God. Niccolò focused on the ceiling and tried not to feel. Ezio hit his prostate with every stroke, and everything felt tight and hot and overstimulated.

“Ezio, please—don’t—I’m c-coming—”

“Did he hurt you?” Ezio whispered, and Niccolò froze beneath him, horror choking his breath. “Is that what this is about? You know, don’t you—that he believed you a traitor.”

“...Ezio.”

“Niccolò.” Ezio tilted his head and softly bit at the side of the younger assassin’s neck. “He loves you. The night after I stopped him, he came to me and wept and confessed that he loved you.”

Niccolò squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to hear this, didn’t want to know (or hear, anyway, firsthand) that Volpe had tried to kill him, loving him all the while—

“He intended to take his own life after he took yours. I don’t blame him. Who could kill the one they loved and continue living?”

“If you know—” Niccolò hitched out a hard breath when Ezio pushed deep into him and then held there. “If you know he loves me, then why did you come to bed with me?”

“Hm. Perhaps I’m just angry.” Ezio rocked out and then back in, setting a pace that was so slow and so torturous that Niccolò keened with every thrust, nails digging into his mentor’s forearms. Ezio lowered his torso until their bodies were flush. “Perhaps I’m just punishing him for what he almost did.”

Niccolò closed his eyes when he came, tangling his hands in Ezio’s dark hair. It was good. Not as good as it was with Volpe—he didn’t sob and cry out, didn’t feel every muscle tighten while stars danced behind his eyes, didn’t hear that sweet murmur of “ _Tesoro_ ” before gentle lips met his—but Ezio held him close and pounded him roughly through his orgasm before reaching his own with a few soft, profane grunts and moans. He withdrew and took his cock in hand, ejaculating somewhat unspectacularly between Niccolò’s legs.

“That’s rude,” Niccolò mumbled. He slung an arm over his eyes and released a long, slow breath, unhooking his legs from around Ezio’s waist and stretching with a groan. Ezio flopped down beside him and wrapped a hand around the younger man’s cock, pumping him gently until the last few lazy drops of cum dribbled onto his stomach.

“Tomorrow morning,” Ezio said quietly, trailing his fingers through the mess just below Niccolò’s navel, “go to Volpe. He wants to mend this.”

“Why should I?”

“Don’t you love him?”

“That hardly matters. He literally tried to stick a knife into my back. He’d have succeeded, were it not for you.” Niccolò rolled over onto his side and propped himself up on an elbow, quirking a weary smile. “Maybe I should be trying to win your heart instead.”

“I don’t generally like to mix business and pleasure.”

“I’ve never heard such utter bullshit before in my life.”

Ezio smiled faintly and leaned forward. Their kiss was sweet, but it tasted like a farewell. “I’m going to return to my quarters.”

“You can stay.”

“No. I can’t. Think on all that I’ve said.” Ezio got to his feet and swatted the younger man’s ass for good measure, grinning at the scowl he got in return. “And done, if it pleases you.”

“I find myself pleasured to capacity.” Niccolò lay back on the bed, lacing his arms behind his head while he watched his mentor dress. “Ezio.”

“Mm?”

“Thank you.”

The grandmaster smiled, and for one fleeting moment Niccolò wished desperately that the older man would stay, that he could spend the whole night stealing kisses from that sinful mouth, but Ezio opened the door. “Go to Volpe,” he repeated, and stepped out, leaving Niccolò alone with his turbulent thoughts.

 


	36. Edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys say fuck a lot.

“Please. Baby, _please_. I want you, I want it so bad, _please_ —”

Volpe drew his head back and licked his lips, exhaling a hot breath across his lover’s straining cock and smiling a little at the desperate moan from above his head. He looked up and his grin widened. Niccolò was watching him with half-lidded eyes, his pupils dilated, swollen lips parted in a pant. He was tied down to their bed, arms stretched high over his head, leaving him bare and exposed beneath his husband’s loving hands.

“You’re so pretty, though,” Volpe murmured, wrapping both hands around the younger man’s hips and returning his mouth to the wet hole begging for his attention. Niccolò keened and arched, struggling against the cuffs keeping him secured to the headboard.

“Gil, suck me—”

“Mm, no. You got too close the last time we did that.” Gil slid two fingers into Niccolò’s body, relishing the startled gasp he received and running his tongue up and down the swollen heat behind his lover’s balls. “You taste so good.”

“Gil, _fuck_ me! Oh, God, there—fuck _me_ …”

“You getting close?” Silence answered his question, and with a wicked smile Gil drew back, chuckling when Niccolò snarled at him.

“Oh, come _on_ —”

“Number four, right?” Gilberto sat up and leaned down to kiss his husband, grinding against him while Niccolò moaned into his mouth. “If you keep begging me, though, I might let you cum on six or seven.”

“Instead of what?” Niccolò groaned.

Volpe chuckled and hugged him a little closer, tongue leaving a wet path along his lover’s jaw and up the shell of his ear before lips closed around the lobe. “I’m thinking ten.”

“Please,” Niccolò said at once, whimpering when Gil laughed and rocked against his hips a little more firmly. “Please take me, fuck me, make me cum, please, love, please…”

“Aw, come on now,” Gil whispered, and kissed gently down the center of his lover’s chest, pausing to bite sharply at a pert nipple before moving down to his navel, letting his tongue wet the trail of hair that led down to Niccolò’s cock. “You can do better than that, hm?”

Niccolò tried to speak, but that tongue was inside him again, probing and slicking his entrance while Gil’s fingers teased at the base of his cock. “Gilberto, I’m so hard it _hurts_ —I don’t care what you do, just _please let me_ —”

Fingers pushed into him once more, pressing down and rubbing against his prostate almost brutally hard. Niccolò rode his husband’s hand without thinking, an animal of pure want, sobbing at the excruciating pain and pleasure that was his impossibly hard erection trapped against Gil’s body. Gil was tearing open a condom with his teeth, eyes dark, one hand already jerking at his stupidly thick cock.

“You want it?” he crooned, and slapped a hand against Niccolò’s ass, earning a sharp cry and a desperate lurch of his captive’s body against his. “My baby wants to get fucked, huh?”

“I just _want you_ , Gil—please.”

Volpe groaned and kissed him, tongue-fucking Niccolò’s panting mouth while he finally thrust into his body, and then the sensations of Niccolò’s wet tongue and his wet hole mixed until Volpe couldn’t tell where he was feeling what. Legs caught around his waist and dragged him close, his husband’s moans vibrating across his teeth and lips. Volpe entwined their hands at the top of the bed, squeezing his fingers around Niccolò’s until he felt the warm metal of both wedding rings biting at his skin.

“Remember our third date?” he whispered, interspersing each word with wet kisses that made Niccolò’s hips jump to meet his. “Remember lying on my lap and sucking me until I came all over your mouth? Hm? It was the best head I’ve ever had, you know that? Remember our wedding night—you remember bending me over the edge of the hot tub and taking me from behind? And curling up in bed afterwards, and you reread your vows while I jerked you off?”

“ _Fuck_ , Gil.”

Volpe’s chuckle was a warm hum against his mouth. “Remember when I chained you to the bed and edged you five times?”

“Five—no, Gil—oh, come _on_!” Niccolò snarled his frustration when Volpe abruptly jerked his hips back, leaving his lover thrusting against air and groaning at the sudden emptiness. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!”

“Ow,” Gil gasped, peeling the condom off his straining cock and rubbing his length to soothe it. “Ouch, fuck. That hurts.”

“ _No shit it fucking hurts!_ Look at my _balls_ , you self-satisfied asshole!”

“Mm, what’s that? Eat you out again until we get to number six?”

“Don’t be a dick! If I have to go to the _hospital_ because this fucking _erection_ has lasted for three _fucking hours_ —”

Volpe rolled his eyes and rocked back into his husband’s body, thrusting into him gently until the stream of curses became sweet little moans again.

 

 

**  
  
**


	37. Assist

_Gilberto—_

_Made breakfast. In the oven. Remember to turn it off before  you leave the house._

_Love you._

_-N_

Gil smiled a little and switched off the oven. The triple-underlining under _turn it off_ probably wasn’t necessary, but then, he had forgotten once (or thrice). Sucking syrup off his thumb, Gil returned to his mountain of pancakes, sifting through the stack of bills on the kitchen counter, but his gaze kept darting up to the little note taped to the coffee maker. He liked that Niccolò both addressed and signed the notes he left around the house, as if there were someone else there who might read them. It was cute. Unneeded, but cute.

He blew out a sigh, getting up from the table (a round top plastic piece, the type that was supposed to go on a porch, but it was all they had been able to afford) and opened the fridge, clicking his tongue against his teeth. A brown paper bag sat on the top shelf, innocuous and innocent, also labelled with an N, and Gil sighed. Leave it to Niccolò to get up early enough to make his dozing boyfriend breakfast and then forget his own lunch.

He ambled to their bedroom, raking a hand through his curls, tousled and ratty from sleep, and kicked through a few waylaid pairs of pants on the floor, trying to find something that looked halfway presentable. When the hell had they gotten so messy? Gil was one thing, a borderline hoarder who liked his living space to have a certain element of chaotic madness, but Niccolò was fastidiously neat. He didn’t mind his boyfriend’s clutter so long as it wasn’t on his desk or in his writing space, but it wasn’t like him to leave his clothes strewn about. Gil half-considered cleaning up, but his watch read a little after eleven, and Niccolò was in the habit of taking his lunch early so he could work in a quiet office while everyone else was off.

Late morning, Gil had long since decided, was really the best time for waking. He liked the quietness of their street, absent the shouts of kids getting ready for school and parents getting ready for work; he liked the lack of traffic and the fact that the birds, instead of waking him up with their morning chorus, had buggered off to go do less annoying bird things. He whistled a little to himself as he walked out to his car, swinging his keys in one hand and Niccolò’s forgotten lunch in the other.

“Good morning, Gil.”

Gil paused and looked up. Their neighbor hovered on the other side of the hedge, smiling at him, and waved her hedge clippers.

“You’re not just now getting up, are you?” Maud chided, and pointed the clippers at him. She was a lively old gal, edging up into her late seventies, but she still wore her silver hair long and could be found at any given hour taking care of her yard and garden while her little grandson, Altair, ran around in manic circles and played soldier.

“No,” Gil lied, and held up the paper sack. “Just running Nic his lunch.”

“Are you boys eating enough?” Maud asked, and nodded at the sack with a frown. “That looks pretty paltry. Do you want some leftover lasagna? I made too much last night.”

“Maybe later? He doesn’t eat much at work. Too high-strung.”

Maud made that humming I-see noise that all older folks made at younger folks, surveying him over the rim of her glasses. “He works too hard.”

“Yeah,” Gil said, laughing. “I know.”

“Well, tell him to take a day off. You two are too young to not be enjoying one another.”

“I’ll tell him you said so.” He snapped a hand up to his brow in a mock-salute and grinned. “Have a good one, ma’am.”

She hummed at him again and returned to her hedge with a little shake of her head, but he caught her smiling as he slid into his car and slotted the key into the ignition. It was an older model—a ‘96? ‘97?—and the thing had been crap on wheels when they bought it, but they had spent an enjoyable summer shirtless and working on the engine and the frame and literally every part of the car, because every part of the car had needed fixing, and Maud had whistled at them and brought them lemonade and offered semi-helpful advice. The best part of that summer—the _best_ —was Niccolò leaning over the hood of the car and whispering “Crap, we just became the neighborhood’s ‘those nice gay boys’” and Gil had laughed so hard tears ran down his cheeks.

Traffic into town was light, thankfully, but he hit every red light, and it was a quarter to noon when he finally jogged up the steps of the capitol building. The senator was actually in  the state—for once—and security on the doors had tripled. One of the guards recognized Gil, luckily, and took a quick peek in the bag before waving him in. It was Vidic on the metal detector, unluckily, and Gil’s heart sank even as he slapped a too-cheerful too-friendly grin on his face.

“Hey, Warren,” he said, as lightly as he could, placing the sack on the conveyor belt and stepping out of his shoes. “How’s it going?”

“Can’t complain,” Vidic replied, in a voice that implied that he would have liked to complain very much. “Bringing lunch for your friend?”

Gil forced his grin to stretch a little wider. _That’s my boyfriend, you homophobic asshole_. “Yep. Poor darling always forgets.” And then he winked and cocked one hip out, assuming classic stereotypical gay-man pose and gay-man voice, just to see that little twitch in Vidic’s left eyelid. “Never forgets his goodbye kiss, though.”

Yep, there was the twitch. “Well that’s nice,” Vidic said, but he pursed his lips like he’d just sucked on a lemon and looked at his computer screen. “You’re good. Step through.”

Gil pulled on his shoes as he walked away, eager to put as much distance between himself and Vidic’s bigoted lemon-sucking face as possible. The atmosphere beyond the terrifying domain of government security lightened considerably; men and women rushed back and forth across the ornate interior hall, some pausing to offer him a wave. Gil had become a common sight around the government office (Niccolò forgot his lunch that frequently). He headed for the wing on his immediate left, flashing a grin at the security guy stationed at the door, who waved him in with a roll of his eyes.

The senator’s office was quiet—the staff had taken off for lunch. Most of the staff, anyway. Gil paused on the threshold, his heart melting a little, and hovered for a moment just to watch the man he loved. Niccolò sat at a desk in the back of the room—right outside the senator’s private office—bent over his computer with his glasses pushed up his nose and the tip of his thumb in his mouth so he could gnaw on a hangnail he’d given himself the day before. His brow furrowed a little as Gil watched, and he lowered a hand to his keyboard and delivered a few decisive strokes before sitting back in his chair, scratching at the back of his head and frowning to himself.

Gil stepped into the room and knocked a fist on the nearest desk, and Niccolò looked up, his scowl softening instantly. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” Gilberto crossed the room and proffered up the sack, smiling. “You’re welcome.”

“Thank you.” Niccolò got to his feet and glanced down on his watch. “Damn. I meant to get out of here earlier. Can you stay?”

“I have a meeting at one.”

“Really?”

“No.” Gil glanced at the door—the guard was still standing in the hallway, humming tunelessly to himself—before leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to Niccolò’s mouth. “Hi. You look preposterously cute and thank you for breakfast.”

Niccolò rolled his eyes, but Gil didn’t miss the smile perking the corners of his mouth. He picked up the sack and whistled, and Gil followed him out of the office, resisting the urge to plant a hand on his ass, which was looking impossibly cute cradled in form-fitting slacks. They avoided the front entrance, using Niccolò’s keycard to exit through an employees-only side door that opened onto the veranda out back. A few interns sat on a bench on the far end. Niccolò dropped himself directly into the grass, undoing the top buttons of his shirt with one hand and rummaging in his lunch with the other.

“I’m starving,” he informed his sandwich, right before sinking his teeth into it.

“Didn’t you eat this morning?”

“Nope.”

Gil raised an eyebrow. “You made breakfast and then didn’t eat?”

Niccolò shrugged, chewing through a second massive bite before answering. “I got distracted.”

“By?”

The younger man shrugged again, but Gil thought he saw the hint of a blush across the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know.”

“Yes you do.” Gil leaned closer and nudged him, grinning. “Tell me.”

Niccolò chewed and swallowed, focused on his lap. “I had this dream.”

“Yeah?” Gil’s smile widened. “About what?”

Niccolò’s ears had turned red. “What do you think? You, of course. We haven’t done it in forever, and…”

“Aw, poor baby,” Gil crooned, cupping a hand to his boyfriend’s face and pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Woke up with a hard-on, huh?”

“Yes,” Niccolò mumbled, and moaned quietly when the older man kissed him. “Gil, don’t…”

“Shh, babe, come here…” Gil pushed him onto his back into the grass, straddling his hips and leaning down to lick hungrily at his mouth before kissing him, sighing at the taste of Niccolò’s tongue in his mouth while hands grasped at his sides and trailed up his arms.

“Hey,” Niccolò whispered, lips wet and warm, teasing Gil’s while he spoke, “I might be able to leave early today.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Another kiss, slow and deep, and he shifted his leg to press his knee against Gil’s crotch, smiling when his boyfriend’s lips parted and a soft moan filled the bare space between them. “That is, if you make it worth my while.”

Gil rolled off and scrambled to his feet, wrenching Niccolò up after him. Hand in hand, laughing, they all but ran back inside and through the office, slipping past the guard (who raised an eyebrow in their direction but said nothing), and Niccolò raised his middle finger at Vidic’s back when the old man turned away from them with a shudder. They hurried through the parking lot, Gil jiggled his keys in the lock on the car door before sliding into the drivers’ seat. Niccolò climbed in after him, straddling his lap and pulling the door closed, and then they were kissing, hungry tongues meeting across the space between their mouths while buttons came undone beneath searching hands.

“I love you,” Niccolò mumbled, teeth catching Gil’s lower lip, hips bucking forward when hands groped him between the legs. “Gilberto…”

The sound of his full name sent a little thrill up Gil’s spine. He fumbled at the latch beneath the seat until the backpiece abruptly fell backwards, leaving them both horizontal, shedding clothes and kicking off shoes while the engine idled and the radio played the latest shitty pop hits. Niccolò kissed him again when they were skin on skin, running a hand over his boyfriend’s broad chest, curling his fingers through the soft hair and rolling his hips, erection bouncing against Gil’s belly through his briefs.

“Aren’t there security cameras in this parking lot?” Gil asked, but both of his hands were already inside his boyfriend’s underwear, grasping at his pert little ass and spreading him open while they ground together.

“Yep.”

“And aren’t they for sure going to see us fucking?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Good,” Gil whispered, grinning, and they lost themselves in another kiss.


	38. Massage II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why study for exams when you can write shameless porn

“You’re so tense.” A murmur, right in his ear, velvety, dulcet. “Niccolò. Why not take a little break?”—as teeth pulled gently at his earlobe— “Hm?”

Niccolò sucked his lower lip between his teeth, glancing at the large hand resting on his shoulder. Volpe smiled—that God-damned, shit-eating, cat-caught-the-canary smile—and tightened his grip _just so_ , just enough that the younger man would feel the intent in his touch.

“I can’t. I want this out of my way tomorrow.”

“I see. How unfortunate.” Volpe stepped a little closer, his thumb making a soothing little circle on  Niccolò’s back. He could feel the tension in his lover’s body even through his heavy formal attire. “Continue, then.”

Niccolò swallowed and looked back down at the document on his desk. An assassination contract from Paris—a tyrannical zealot was stirring up discontent—was this really the sort of job they wanted to take? If the discontent was well founded…

“Gilberto?”

“Yes?”

Oh, God. Niccolò shivered at the tone of his lover’s voice. Two strong hands settled on his shoulders and squeezed gently. “I—ah—maybe you’d give me your opinion on this?”

“What is it?” Volpe leaned closer, and the hair on Niccolò’s neck stood on end. He sat on a stool—his chair had been broken when two fresh recruits quarreled in his office—and he could feel a hard, hot something pressed up against his back.

“A—contract.” He wouldn’t look back at Volpe, wouldn’t—that dark, sultry gaze would be his undoing. The thief’s hands tightened around his shoulders, dark curls tickling Niccolò’s cheek as the older man looked at the contract spread across the desk.

“Hm. If this zealot speaks for the people, then let him speak.” Volpe’s hands slid downward, squeezed Niccolò’s upper arms, boldly feeling the contours of his body through his heavy coat.

“That’s what I thought, but—” Niccolò inhaled sharply when those hands gave up all pretense of innocence and dropped to his hips. A squeeze of Volpe’s fingers, something possessive and wanting, and he pressed his pelvis a little harder into Niccolò’s back. “—I just—a contract is a contract, after all, and—”

“Send a recruit to investigate, then.” Volpe abruptly dropped to his knees, resting a cheek against Niccolò’s back. “Evaluate the situation. And consult Ezio in the meantime.”

“Very well.” Those hands slid inward and rested on his thighs, and Niccolò closed his eyes almost against his will, sucking a breath. “Gilberto…”

“Yes?” Volpe’s grin was _audible_. Damn him.

“You are making it very hard—”

“Am I?”

“—to _concentrate_.”

“Oh?” Volpe rested one hand, palm down, directly on Niccolò’s crotch, and slid the other between his legs, parting his thighs. “My deepest apologies. But you will forgive me if I find your chagrin somewhat…” And he _squeezed_ , palming Niccolò’s rapidly filling erection, and the younger man moaned before he could stop himself. “...Insincere.”

“Gil—”

“Hush. Turn around.”

Niccolò obeyed at once, swiveling on the stool and resting back against his desk, stretching his arms out to grasp each corner and spreading his legs. Volpe knelt between his open thighs, resting both hands on the bulge of his lover’s crotch and rubbing, smiling when he felt the trapped length thickening.

“So quick, _tesoro_ …”

“Shut up,” Niccolò mumbled, and hitched his hips with a groan when Volpe cupped his balls firmly.

The thief chuckled, pressing the palm of his hand into his beloved’s erection and rubbing hard. “You like that? Hm?”

Niccolò reached for him, tangling his fingers in the thief’s dark hair. “Stop teasing.”

Volpe grinned up at him. “Never.” He leaned in and ran his lips up and down the warm bulge, biting and licking at the straining length while Niccolò arched up into his mouth with a plaintive little whimper that made the thief’s blood boil. And as much as Volpe would have liked to sit there and torment Niccolò forever, his own impatience got the better of him, and he unlaced the younger man’s hose with practiced ease and purred when the hard cock sprang free.

The thief sat back, stripping off his gloves and rubbing his palms together to warm them. “Oil?”

“Drawer…” Niccolò licked his lips, watching hungrily as Volpe rummaged in the desk and pulled out their bottle, uncorking it with his teeth and coating his hands liberally. “Gilberto—you had better finish me.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” the thief crooned, leaning up to brush a teasing kiss across the younger man’s mouth, “would I ever be so cruel as to leave you wanting?”

“Yes. You have before.”

Volpe pouted. “Only so I could fuck you properly later.” He didn’t give his lover time to reply, wrapping both hands around the straining cock in front of him and squeezing gently. Niccolò sucked in a gasp and fell silent. “There. That’s better, hm? Let me take care of you.”

Volpe loved Niccolò’s cock—he always had. He took his time exploring his beloved’s length, tracing his fingertips up and down the dark veins, sweeping a thumb back and forth along the underside of the pinked head. Niccolò released the desk and planted both hands on his thighs, fingernails digging into his hose, sucking in sharp breaths and quivering when Volpe tapped the pad of one finger against his leaking slit, stretching a bead of precum into a wet string like a failing bridge.

“Please,” Niccolò murmured. He leaned forward and slid both hands into his lover’s dark hair, pushing Volpe’s hood back, and shuddered when those devious hands wrapped around his cock and pumped gently, just once, up and down, torturously slow. “ _Please_ , Gilberto.”

Volpe pumped him again and nuzzled closer, opening his mouth and resting his tongue against the underside of the swollen head while his hands continued their slow massage. Niccolò whimpered and wrapped his arms around the older man’s shoulders, looking down at the obscene sight of his wet cock trapped between the thief’s palms, the aching head sliding up and down against a warm pink tongue.

“Let me cum on your mouth.”

Volpe chuckled. “Such perversions aren’t beneath you?”

“Not when _you’re_ beneath me.”

“Mm. Clever boy.” Volpe pressed kisses to Niccolò’s tip, massaging the underside of the head with both thumbs. It was so delicious, so debauched, he liked the slick sounds, the weakness in his lover’s voice while he pled for release. “Don’t cum until I tell you.”

“Gilberto—”

“Ah, ah. That’s the game, _amore_. You can cum where you want, but only once I’ve given you permission.” A last, teasing lick, circling the head of Niccolò’s cock with just the tip of his tongue, and then he sat back, rubbing his palms against Niccolò’s trembling thighs. “Touch yourself. Slowly.”

Niccolò did so at once, wrapping both hands around his length and trapping himself in a vice grip, wincing at the first slow tug and shifting his hips. It wasn’t as good as Volpe’s hands on him, but he liked the way the thief watched him, liked the dark lust in his eyes.

“There you go…” Volpe leaned close and licked the swollen head, resting his lips against Niccolò’s tip while the younger man continued to jerk himself clumsily. “Just like that. Ah, ah!—Slow, _tesoro_. As slowly as you can bear.”

“Fuck, Volpe—please—I can’t—”

“You’re close, hm? So soon?” Volpe pushed his hands away, planting them on his shoulders. “Keep them there. Cling to me.”

Niccolò sighed as those hands returned to his cock, closing his eyes and sucking in slow, calming breaths. He wished his head would stop spinning, he wished his blood were less hot. Volpe’s hands on him were careful and deliberate, providing enough pressure to be felt but not enough to satisfy. Niccolò thought dirty thoughts—he thought about the hot wetness of Volpe’s mouth and how good it would feel to fuck him from behind and how Volpe sounded when he was gasping and pleading for release—but that only made him harder and Volpe still wouldn’t give him what he wanted.

“Harder,” he mumbled, through lips swollen and wet with want, “Gilberto. Please. Let me…”

“You want it, hm?”

“ _Yes_ , you vile excuse for—”

“That’s no way to win my permission.”

“Please, love,” Niccolò amended, dropping his voice to a husky whisper, smiling a little at the visible tremor that ran through Volpe’s body. “ _Caro mio_ , my own one, my pretty little fox—”

“Alright, alright,” Volpe laughed, lifting himself onto his knees to press a firm kiss against the younger man’s mouth. The pace of his hands suddenly increased, putting almost bruising pressure on Niccolò’s member, and he was crying out against another rough kiss before he could stop himself. “I’ll count down from five. If you cum before one, you’ll not have me for a month. Am I understood?”

“I’ll take care of m-myself.”

“Not if I tie you to my bed.” Volpe lowered his mouth and sucked on his lover’s neck, leaving a dark, wet bruise when he pulled away. “Five. Facedown, I think. Ass in the air, legs held open, so I can fuck you when I please. But leave you wanting, always leave you wanting.”

“I don’t know that you’ve thought this— _mm!_ —th-thought this through.”

“Four. Of course I have.” Volpe pulled Niccolò’s tunic open and bit at his collarbone. “I’ll make you eat off my stomach and drink from my mouth.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Three. Such cruelty from that pretty mouth.” Volpe squeezed at the base of the captive length in his hand until Niccolò gasped and arched against him with a helpless little whimper. “But _this_ tells me that you love every word.”

“I’m c-c—”

“Don’t. I told you. Not until I hit one.” Volpe grinned and bent his head, brushing his lips lovingly across the swollen, weeping tip. “Don’t tell me that Niccolò Machiavelli’s infamous self-control fails him now? Two.”

“Sh-shut up.” Niccolò twisted a hand into Volpe’s hair and ground his cock against that warm mouth, felt his thighs tighten and his balls clench against the base of his member. “Oh, Christ, _please_.”

“Shh, my love. I know.” Volpe sat back on his heels and left one last teasing lick, so light as to barely be felt, and yet Niccolò grunted at the ghost of sensation and his lower back bowed in the last throes of agony before euphoria. “One, _tesoro_.”

Three slick strokes of his fist—three helpless breaths shunted from Niccolò’s body, three frozen seconds—and then he came, digging his heels into the ground with a hard grunt while he ejaculated messily on Volpe’s mouth, and the thief made no move to wipe away the debauchery on his lips, watching his lover with hot, dark eyes. Their hands met across the space between them, fingers clasped tight, while Niccolò bit down on his coat to keep from crying out, riding out each paralyzingly sweet spasm of his body.

He clutched his desk for balance as he came down, trembling, breath searing in his lungs. Volpe swept a thumb across his lips and stuck it in his mouth, arching an eyebrow.

“More than usual.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Are you going to give me a hand? Or an ass?”

“Just give me a minute.” Niccolò lifted a foot and nudged it into  his lover’s shoulder. “Greedy son of a bitch.”

“ _I’m_ the greedy one? I let you cum on my _mouth_.”

“You liked it.”

“That’s beside the point.” Volpe got to his feet and began to undo his hose. “I get to cum on you now, wherever I want.”

“Is that how this works?”

“It’s only fair.”

Niccolò rolled his eyes and sighed before sitting up and removing his coat. “Alright. But I get to count you down, too.”

Volpe's grin threatened to consume his whole stupidly handsome face. "I'd be offended if you didn't."


	39. Office II

“—which reminds us, as always, that Dante did for the Italian language what Shakespeare did for the English language—not only managed to expand its lexicon and syntax as no one had before him, but also managed to give a war-torn cluster of kingdoms a unified text in one _Italiano_ that they could all understand.” Niccolò paused and checked his watch. “And that’s time. I hope you’re all actually _reading_ Dante” —he raised his voice a little to be heard over the sudden mayhem of notebooks slapping closed and backpacks unzipping, chairs being pushed hurriedly from desks— “or nothing I’m saying is going to make any sense!”

He got a few general mutters of assent, and assumed—as always—that his warning had fallen on deaf ears. Oh, well. He was tired of grading half-assed papers, but there was only so much he could do this late in the game. He closed his lecture a little more huffily than usual, scowling at the last retreating backs.

 “Don’t take an advanced elective seminar in Italian literature if you don’t give a shit about Italian literature,” he muttered, packing away his laptop and bending down to stuff it into his bag.

“Some of us give a shit.”

Niccolò jumped, hit his head squarely on the edge of the metal podium, and rose slowly, rubbing his scalp and blinking rapidly to keep his eyes from watering.

“Oops.” Gil grimaced, but his shit-eating grin was impossible to hide. “Sorry, Professor.”

“Don’t— _ow_ —call me that if you’re not being serious,” Niccolò grumbled, checking his palm for blood. “What are you doing here?”

“Listening to you lecture.”

“You’re not a literature student.”

Gil shrugged. “No rule against me sitting in, is there? Especially since I’m the only one who seems to enjoy listening to you talk.”

“You didn’t even come in on time.”

That grin widened. “I was—indisposed.”

Niccolò sighed. “What do you want, Gilberto?”

“You didn’t return my calls last night.”

The younger man arched an eyebrow. “I was in a staff meeting. I texted you.” He swung his bag over his shoulder and stepped around the podium, folding his arms over his chest. “I’m flattered that you care enough to come to my lectures, but you should stop. You’ll arouse suspicion.”

 “Who cares?” Gil mimicked him, his broad arms crossing his broad chest, and he grinned a little when Niccolò’s gaze flickered downward and the tips of his ears turned red. “I’m a grad student in economics and you’re an undergraduate lecturer with the literature program. You don’t even know anyone in my department. The fact” —he took a step closer, and Niccolò backed up, until his legs hit the podium— “that I get to take you home” —and then Gil was on him, smiling, hands settling on Niccolò’s hips and inching up under his shirt— “and kiss you” — thumbs rubbing bare skin— “and _fuck_ you” — lips teasing against his even as the bastard spoke— “shouldn’t in any way affect my grades.”

Gilberto kissed him, a long, lingering thing that made every nerve ending in Niccolò’s body tingle with want, and he was groping between the older man’s legs before he could stop himself, cupping the warm erection trapped up against the denim of his jeans and squeezing gently, just to feel Gilberto’s lips part in a soft moan against his.

“Jesus, Gil.”

“I told you I like listening to you talk.”

“What kind of freak gets a hard-on listening to a lecture about Dante Alighieri?”

“Excuse me,” Gil growled, nipping at his lover’s lower lip, “I seem to recall a certain _someone_ almost blowing it all over my face when I read him Voltaire.”

“Because another _certain someone_ was using a vibrator on my cock while he did it,” Niccolò whispered, gathering Gil’s dark curls in one hand and mouthing at the side of his neck. “There’s a class in here after us.”

“When?”

“The professor comes in around three minutes after I get done.”

“Mm. Then unless you have an exhibitionist streak I don’t know about—”

 “I’m not saying anything to the contrary, but…”

“—maybe this is best continued in your office?” Gilberto’s hands cupped his ass and squeezed, pulled him forward so their crotches made warm, rough contact, and Niccolò groaned into the next slick assault on his mouth.

“Go,” he gasped, “come on, _go_.”

Gilberto grinned and grabbed him by the hand. It was fortunate that Niccolò’s office was in the same building; they slipped out the door and made a mad dash up the stairs, slowing to a walk only when the head of the department came breezing by.

“Oh, hey.” Marcello paused and grabbed Niccolò’s arm as he passed. “Nico, have you got a second?”

“Um—” Not with Gilberto trying to surreptitiously remove his hand from his lower back, not with a stupidly quick erection tightening his pants. “Sorry. I have office hours.”

“Well, look, as soon as you’re done, then, because that new review just came out in the journal I’m editing and it makes a few interesting connections between Johnson et al and—”

“Yes, definitely, the review—I’m free at two,” Niccolò said, clapping Marcello on the shoulder and offering him the brightest grin he could manage. “Sorry, I really need to get to my office—this one miserably failed the last paper,” he added, jerking a thumb toward Gil, who had the good grace to look appropriately humbled. “Got to go salvage some enthusiasm for higher education.”

They hurried past before Marcello could get another word in—before he could glance downward and see the real source of their haste—and no sooner had Niccolò pulled his office door closed than Gilberto was on his knees, one hand already in his pants while the other pulled urgently at Niccolò’s belt.

“Hurry, hurry— _fuck_ ,” he murmured, leaning in and running his mouth over the bulge in Niccolò’s slacks while his boyfriend struggled to get his belt undone. “Fuck, baby. I want you.”

Niccolò undid his belt with a sigh of relief and opened his pants, gasping sharply and arching his hips when Gilberto pulled him free of his briefs, thumbing the swollen head of his cock before shuffling forward and taking half the straining length in his mouth.

“—Oh. _Oh._ Oh, _fuck_.” Niccolò fell back against his desk, squeezing his eyes shut against the sudden deluge of his sensation, fighting the urge to cum at the coupling of that hot, intense pleasure with those _sounds_ , wet and soft and obscene—sounds that grossed him out, really, until it was his cock and Gilberto’s mouth and the sullenly academic silence of his office. He curled a hand in his boyfriend’s hair, smoothing his fingers through the soft curls until he gripped the back of Gil’s head and gently guided him into a better angle.

“Fuck, there—mm.” He tipped his head back and pressed the knuckles of his free hand to his mouth to keep himself from shouting when Gil’s tongue swept around the tip of his cock. “God, that’s good—aw, _Gil_ —”

Gilberto chuckled as he got to his feet, stroking a thumb over Niccolò’s pouting lips at his stopping. “Come on, you don’t get to have all the fun.”

“What do you want to do?”

The older man grinned and shimmied his jeans down to his ankles, palming his cock even as he bent over Niccolò’s desk. He looked over his shoulder and flashed his lover a cheeky grin.

“Come here, handsome.”

“You’re kidding…” Niccolò stepped forward and swept his fingertips over Gil’s hole, exhaling slowly at the wetness he found there. “You little shit. You came in late because—”

“I was in the bathroom lubing up for you, yeah.” Gil shifted his hips backward, pressing his ass into Niccolò’s hips with a sweet little sound that made Niccolò’s blood catch fire. “Come on, I want it.”

“Fuck.” And fuck his preposterously advanced vocabulary and mastery of the academic lexicon, apparently, because he didn’t know what else to say in response to seduction this perfect. He grasped Gil’s hips and ground against him, but even he couldn’t take the teasing—Gil’s hand was wrapping around his cock and guiding him into place in seconds, and Niccolò moaned outright as he slid into that slick warmth, hips pumping through the first few strokes before he could stop himself.

“Christ,” Gil breathed, pressing his forehead against the desk and gasping when Niccolò bent forward over his back, that hand tangling in his hair again, putting pressure on the back of his head. “Fuck me.”

And Niccolò did—he meant to go slow, go deep, take his time with this man he loved so dearly, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Gil’s mouth on him, about that tongue teasing the head of his cock, so he spread Gil’s ass in his hands and fucked him, pressing messy moans against his boyfriend’s shoulders, tugging at the fabric of his sweaty t-shirt with his teeth.

“If I let you come inside me— _mmn_ —” Gil turned his head to the side, panting mouth quirked into a grin, “do I get an A?”

“That’s not funny…”

“But you just got— _ooh_ —you got h-harder—” The older man shuddered. “Oh—N-Niccolò—please—touch me?”

“Sorry.” Niccolò wrapped a hand around his lover’s cock, moaning at its thickness, insides jumping and clenching with want. “Mm. Sorry, love, I didn’t mean to...”

“It’s okay, it’s—oh, _God_ , right there, rub it—fuck, just like that—”

Niccolò counted seventeen more deep, fast strokes—spent the time in between pushing Gil’s head against the desk while biting at his back and pumping his cock, feeling its warmth and weight, thinking about how good it felt to wake up to Gil grinding it against his ass that morning, masturbating on him while hands played over his body, worshiping him—counted seventeen and then came, pushing in until his hips were flush to Gil’s ass, deep enough that maybe Gil would have time to get out and stretch his legs a little before he’d feel Niccolò’s cum drip down between his thighs—

“Hey…” Gilberto wriggled, and Niccolò, whose hand had gone slack, pressed into him a little more closely, a little more intimately, murmuring soft endearments into his lover’s hair while he worked him gently, tugging on him and rubbing him until Gilberto stiffened and shuddered. Niccolò cupped his hand around the tip, biting his lip at the wet splashes of cum on his fingers, straightened up and stood back a little so he could watch a few errant droplets drip down the back of his desk.

“Shit. Look at you.” He couldn’t help but smile, rubbing the palm of his hand down Gil’s lower back to help him relax before withdrawing with a backward shift of his hips. “Good one?”

“ _Fuck_ yes.” Gilberto wrapped a hand around his cock and gave it a few last languid tugs, ejaculating once more on his previous mess with a quiet sigh. “I’ll clean that up.”

 "Yeah, you will.” Niccolò turned him around and pressed into him, trailing kisses along the side of his neck and jaw. “Not right now.”

 “No?”

 “No. Right now, you’re going to sit on this desk and let me kiss you.”

Gilberto grinned and hopped up, letting Niccolò step between his spread knees and claim his mouth like it was a prize he’d won. “Hey. Boner aside, I really did like your lecture today.”

“Mm. Yeah?”

 “Yeah. I dunno if you’ve noticed, but you clench your ass when you get excited about something.”

 “I do not.”

“Yeah, you do.” Gilberto grinned and kissed him, a warm, soft thing, a good way to bookend their little tryst. “I want to do it in your office more often.”

 “Maybe.” Niccolò wrapped his hands around his boyfriend’s ass and tugged him a little closer, pressing his softening cock into Gilberto’s belly. “Tell me again how good my lecture was, and maybe then we’ll talk.”

       

           


	40. Taunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy mother of chapter forty.
> 
> Side note: two thousand florins was an absolutely ABSURD amount of money at the time-- a living wage was about 200 annually. But oh well, it's Assassins Creed.

La Volpe couldn’t stand Niccolò Machiavelli.

He assumed the feeling was mutual—and rightfully so. They had been at each other’s throats since the moment they met, trading insults, trading barbs; every exchange was a brief, breathless battle, every sideways glance a challenge.

Volpe stopped by the hideout on Tiber Island with a bag full of coins, feeling pleased with himself. He’d been pushing his thieves triply hard lately, amassing funds for the cause—the first cause of which he’d ever been a part, the first cause he’d ever _believed_ in. And his efforts had been richly rewarded; their take had doubled over the last few weeks, and he expected it to climb even higher.

 He wasn’t pleased, however, to see Machiavelli seated at the desk in the grand room, bent over a map of Roma with a frown on his face, absentmindedly feeding a pigeon out of one hand while it hopped around and shit all over an errant pile of papers.

 Volpe paused for a moment to brace himself before approaching the desk, doing his absolute best to appear cool and collected. “ _Salute_ , Machiavelli.”

The younger man glanced up, and a wicked smirk curved his mouth. “La Volpe. Lose your way to the brothel again?”

 Volpe pursed his lips. “No.” He dropped the bag of coin on the desk and stepped back, folding his arms over his chest. “This month’s earnings from the guild.”

“Oh?” Machiavelli leaned forward and tugged the bag open, peering in at the contents. “How much?”

 “Two thousand florins.” Volpe puffed up his chest—without really meaning to—and grinned. “How’s that, eh?”

 “…Mm.” Machiavelli looked up at him and arched an eyebrow. “Ezio makes that much in three days, just picking pockets. What exactly do your thieves _do_ , Volpe—scrounge for coins fallen in the street?”

 The thief felt his cheeks flushing and could do nothing to stop it. “Roma is poor. The people have little.”

 “Then steal from cardinals. The Vatican vaults should be well-stocked. Or return to Florence and figure out whatever happened to the money the Medici had squirreled away.” Machiavelli sat back in his chair, lacing his hands over his abdomen and smiling impishly up at the thief. “I honestly expected more ingenuity from Italy’s master thief.”

Volpe stared at him. For three wild seconds, he fought the urge to jump across the desk and _slap_ the stupid smile off the asshole’s face. At length, he forced himself to turn on his heel and stride away, leaving Machiavelli chuckling behind him.

 

* * *

 

 "He’s such a blowhard! He’s an arrogant, strutting _peacock_ who plays people for fun. An annoying prankster who only _thinks_ he’s funny. An irritating, sanctimonious, self-important—"

“Sounds like you want to fuck him.”

 La Volpe stopped mid-sentence and lifted his head, staring indignantly at the assassin sitting across from him. “ _What?”_

 Ezio lifted an eyebrow, leaning across the table to refill Volpe’s glass of wine. “I said, it sounds like you’re attracted to Machiavelli.”

 “Did you not hear _anything_ I just said?” Volpe demanded, snatching up his wine and draining the glass in one go before all but slamming it back down upon the table. “I can’t _stand_ that little fucker.”

 “The last time I irritated someone as much as he irritates you, we wound up entangled in a wild affair,” Ezio said, cradling his chin in his hand with an irksome smile painted across his stupidly handsome face. “Oh, actually—the last _two_ women I irritated that much became my lovers. So perhaps this is the prelude to something wonderful.”

 “Nonsense,” Volpe said flatly. “For one, I’m not into men. Well. I am sometimes. It depends on the man.”

 “Is that so?”

 Volpe made a noncommittal flip of his hand. “Occasionally I find a man in the Rosa in Fiore that I don’t mind.”

 “The last one—describe him to me.”

 Volpe scrunched up his nose, trying to remember—he’d had a lot of wine that night. “Er—rather slight of frame, tallish. Dark hair and eyes. Pale.” He looked up and found Ezio grinning at him so widely Volpe thought his jaw may crack. “ _What?”_

 “So—you’re saying he looked like Machiavelli.”

 “What? Don’t be ridiculous. He looked nothing like—” Volpe stopped and scowled. “I do _not_ want to fuck Machiavelli.”

 “Would you fuck him from the front or the back?”

“Neither!”

 “If you _had_ to. Which way?”

 Volpe huffed and rolled his eyes. “Fine. Front.”

 “Why?”

 “So I could see his face when he came,” Volpe said, without thinking.

 Ezio’s mouth dropped open. “ _Dio mio_. You don’t just want to fuck him—you _like_ him.”

 “I do _not!_ ”

 “What’s your favorite part of his body?”

 “I don’t have one, because I’ve never—” (But the small of his back, the way it curved so nicely into his ass…)

 "Do you watch his lips when he speaks?”

 “This is insane— _you’re_ insane,” Volpe said, getting up out of his chair—only to fall over sideways and seize the table for support when his head spun. “How much have we had to drink, Ezio?”

 “Lost count after three bottles.”

 “ _Damn._ ” Volpe pulled himself back into his chair and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Can we just talk about something else?”

 “You should tell Machiavelli.”

 “Tell him what?”

 “That you want to fuck him in the ass.”

 “I’d let him fuck me, actually.” Volpe blinked twice and then lunged forward to slap Ezio’s arm. “I didn’t say that!”

 But the assassin had dissolved into laughter, nearly falling out of his chair, clutching the empty bottle of wine to his chest.

 “Tell him,” he said, chuckling and wiping at his eyes. “If you aggravate him half as much as he aggravates you, then perhaps you’re not the only one pining.”

 

* * *

 

 “Hey!”

 Volpe stormed into the upstairs office without a great deal of aforethought—because, in his general opinion, aforethought was a waste of time—and came to a halt in front of Machiavelli’s desk. The assassin slowly lifted his head, arching one brow and quirking a smile.

 “La Volpe. Twice in three days. I’m a lucky man.”

 “I was drinking with Ezio last night—”

 “Ezio drinks? Shocking.”

 “—and he says that I want to fuck you.”

 Machiavelli blinked. “What?”

 “Well, actually, he implied that we want to fuck each other.”

 “Oh. Well.” Machiavelli canted his head to the side. “Well, yes.”

 Volpe stopped mid-breath—he’d been gearing up to tell Machiavelli _exactly_ where he could put that infuriating attitude of his—and released a long, slow exhale. “ _What?”_

 “We are mutually attracted, yes?” Machiavelli folded his hands on his desk, frowning. “I assumed that was understood.”

 “Wh—I’m not— _no!_ Of course it wasn’t! You—you _hate_ me!”

 The assassin flicked an eyebrow upward. “I’ve never professed to hate you.”

 “No, but—but—you’re _always_ taunting me, and giving me an unnecessarily hard time, and…and…”

 “I taunt everyone,” Machiavelli said lightly. “And I give everyone a hard time. You’re the only one who’s ever taken the bait, though. I assumed it was part of the game.”

 “ _Game?_ ” Volpe furrowed his brows. “What game?”

 “This game—our game. Whatever strange—whatever it is that we’re doing.”

 “We’re not doing anything! You’re the most ridiculous excuse for a man that I know! You’re a preening, nonsensical, arrogant—”

 Machiavelli—still frowning—got to his feet and circled the desk. He came to a stop in front of Volpe, hooked a hand into the front of his robes, tugged him forward—and kissed him. It was a light, easy thing, devoid of intent—just the softest press of Machiavelli’s lips to his. Volpe froze, staring at the younger man in stunned silence when Machiavelli drew back.

 “When I taunt and I tease,” Machiavelli murmured, lifting a hand to run his thumb along the line of Volpe’s jaw, “I single you out because I am attracted to you." And he cracked that wicked, annoying, handsome grin. "Just to be clear, since you're obviously a little on the slow side of these things."

 Volpe meant to tell him to fuck off—to stop being an idiot—he meant to storm out and never _talk_ to the peacock again. But instead he closed the meager distance between them and kissed that mouth, moaning quietly when a hand wound into his hair and tugged him close. He pushed into the younger man, backing him into the desk and running his hands up Machiavelli’s chest.

 “I can’t stand you,” he murmured, slipping a hand beneath Machiavelli’s shirt to rake his nails along heated skin.

 “I see,” the younger man said, equally soft, smiling faintly and opening his knees so Volpe could step between them.

“But I want to fuck you.” They kissed again, and Volpe’s stomach did a turn at the taste of Machiavelli’s tongue.

A hand pressed between his legs and _squeezed_ , and Volpe saw white. “That can be arranged.”

“Good.” He grasped the assassin’s jaw in one hand and tilted his chin up, relishing the way the younger man arched gently into his front. “Don’t tell Ezio.”

  


	41. Taunt II

Volpe awoke in another man’s bed, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The fact that he was warm, comfortable, and aching pleasantly—also not the worst of it. The _worst_ part of his situation was that he’d been considering punching said man in the mouth for the past few years, and that mouth had kissed him very softly that morning before he found himself alone again.

 And oh, shit—he almost forgot. He had felt that kiss on his skin, and heard a low murmur from those lips.

 “God, what I wouldn’t give to wake up with your mouth between my legs.”

 Just a sweet little profanity to start the day off right.

 Italy’s renowned master thief lazed around for the better part of the morning, making himself perfectly at home in Machiavelli’s quarters. He found a mirror and explored his body, found no fewer than sixteen love bites marring his skin and rug burns on his ass and back because, at some point, he and his unexpected partner had wrestled off the bed and finished one another off on the floor.

 Near noon—aching, hungry, rubbing salve into a particularly prominent bruise on the nape of his neck—Volpe left the assassin’s rooms and headed into the bottom level of the hideout. Generally, he made it a priority not to spend any more time than was absolutely necessary inside the hideout—partially to avoid Ezio’s pestering for help, and mostly to avoid the asshole named Machiavelli.

 But Machiavelli had kissed him last night. And again. And again. Machiavelli had taken him to bed and pushed him into the mattress and fucked him and then, this morning, had pressed a soft kiss to the back of his shoulder and murmured lusty, heated things against his skin while a hand caressed his ass.

 The man was hard at work by the time Volpe crept downstairs, neatly dressed and groomed and not looking at all like he’d been up until the early hours of the morning with la Volpe’s legs around his waist and the thief’s crafty hands clutching at his hair. Volpe trailed him around the hideout—not particularly caring if he was caught, but watching for any sign that the younger man was half as confused and bewildered by their encounter as Volpe.

 After an hour, Machiavelli sent his horde of recruits on their way and departed for his office, though he left the door open just a crack—just enough for a wily thief to slip through without attracting much notice. Volpe hovered by the doorway, watching Machiavelli’s turned back as warily as he might a potential attacker.

 Finally—after what seemed a torturously long time—Machiavelli looked over his shoulder and quirked a smile. “Good morning. Well—technically it’s afternoon.”

 Volpe blushed. “You could have woken me.”

 “Mm. You seemed tired.” And that grin widened, no attempt at a façade of innocence, no attempt to pretend that he wasn’t entirely responsible for the late hour of Volpe’s rising. “Can I help you with something?”

 “I just wanted to…” But Volpe trailed off, because he had no idea what he wanted. Not the faintest clue. “I just—what now?”

 “What do you mean?”

 “I—do I need to worry about this happening again?”

 Machiavelli snorted and turned to face the thief, leaning his weight against his desk and crossing one ankle over the other. “Nothing will happen unless you ask for it, Volpe.”

 “But—” Volpe paused, lowering his gaze from Machiavelli’s smirking mouth. “If I wanted to—to see you again?”

 “Do you lack ears, thief? I just told you that you need only ask.”

 Volpe hesitated. Perhaps it would be easier—boring, but easier—to just walk out now, to call their tryst what it was. A foolish, wild, impulsive act of pure animal lust. No reason to make it into anything more or anything less. But Volpe’s feet were already carrying him forward, carrying him to within touching distance of the other man.

 “I enjoyed myself,” Volpe said quietly, focusing on the intricate buttons of Machiavelli’s coat rather than look at him smiling so smugly, so knowingly. “With you. That is. The things we did. The both of us.” He stopped, willed himself to go silent, but kept going. “Together. Um. Us.”

 “La Volpe, someday they shall build monuments to your powers of rhetoric.”

 “Shut up,” Volpe said, but even as he spoke, he stepped forward and grasped Machiavelli’s hand, guiding it between his legs and closing his eyes with a low, shaky sigh when the younger man squeezed gently.

 “Mm. Did you wake up hard, or has following me around for the last hour— _aroused_ your interest?”

 “Was that supposed to be funny?” Volpe moved closer, turning around and pressing his ass into Machiavelli’s front, rocking into the hand that was now actively groping his cock through his hose. “Because it wasn’t. At all. You’re an arrogant little prat who isn’t the slightest bit— _mmn_ —f-funny.”

 “Mm.” Machiavelli pressed his face into Volpe’s shoulder, and the thief felt the curve of that smile against his back. “I enjoyed myself, as well.” He went quiet for a moment, massaging his palm into the thief’s crotch until Volpe moaned for him. “You like this, don’t you—being touched like this? Teased?”

 “Yes,” Volpe breathed, and didn’t even had the energy to berate himself for giving _in_ so damn easily.

 Machiavelli hummed and cupped his free hand to Volpe’s ass, groping him roughly. Volpe grunted and spread his legs, seating himself on Machiavelli’s thigh and grinding against him shamelessly, aching for a harder touch but—as the peacock had so astutely pointed out—delighting in the tease.

 “Would you come to bed with me again?” Machiavelli pressed a lingering kiss to the bruise on Volpe’s nape, tongue flickering out to taste the wound while Volpe shuddered beneath his caressing mouth.

 “Yes…” Again, that quiet, trembling voice that just didn’t _sound_ like him, but Volpe felt so powerless to _stop_ , and he didn’t _want_ to. He wanted to sit here forever in Machiavelli’s lap with the younger man’s hand rubbing and squeezing his cock and that warm mouth soothing love bites from the night before.

 “I’m going to make you cum in your hose.” Machiavelli’s voice turned rough, and a hand pulled Volpe’s tunic away from his shoulder before teeth bit in. Volpe felt a warm, thick erection pressed up against his ass and ground into it, smiling faintly at the low moan he got in return.

 “You can try,” he murmured, and cried out when two hands settled on his need, set and determined to drive him to completion.

 

* * *

“I fucked Machiavelli.”

 Volpe sighed and stared at the ceiling while Ezio dissolved into a fit of laughter, setting down the delicate tools he’d been using to fine-tune his hidden blade so he could rest his head on his arms upon the table and howl. From the other corner of the studio, a sharp _thud_ sounded, followed by a muttered “Fuck,” and Leonardo emerged from beneath his latest iteration of the flying machine, rubbing the crown of his head.

 “You did _what?_ ”

 “Fucked. Machiavelli,” Volpe repeated, slowly and clearly. He had walked—hobbled, really—to the artist’s studio right after Machiavelli had left him alone in bed for a second time.

 Leonardo groaned. “Well, shit.” He dug around in his pockets and fished out a handful of florins, dumping them on the table. “There you have it.”

 “Thank you,” Ezio said, still chuckling, scooping up the coins and depositing them in his pouch while Volpe stared on in horror.

 “What the—you two were _betting_ on whether I’d fuck that sanctimonious son of a bitch?” He turned to Ezio and jabbed a finger into the assassin’s (still laughing) chest. “Was that why you were trying to convince me I was attracted to him?!”

 “No—I was trying to convince you you’re attracted to him because you are _attracted to him_ ,” Ezio snorted, batting the accusing hand away. “Besides. Niccolò likes you. He told me ages ago, once I’d gotten some wine into him. He figured that if he strung you along for a while, he’d eventually have you. So, to give credit where credit is due” –he patted his money pouch— “half of this belongs to him.”

 “ _He_ was betting too?! Why that little _shit!_ That strutting _bastard_ of a son of a _whore_ —”

 “Got him, his father, and his grandmother in one insult,” Leonardo said, raising his eyebrows. “Impressive.”

 “Oh, sod off!”

 Ezio grinned and nudged a foot into the fuming thief’s chair. “Was it good?”

 “Go fuck yourself.”

 “You weren’t walking straight when you came in.”

 “With a—with a—flanged mace, you piece of shit excuse for an assassin.”

 “Is that somehow a metaphor for Machiavelli’s— _ouch!_ ”

 Volpe lowered his foot—having used it to kick Ezio out of his chair—and smiled down at his comrade. “I mean it. Go fuck yourself.”

 “ _Merda_ , try to help a man,” Ezio grumbled, getting back to his feet and rubbing his ass.

 “The fact that he staggered in here like a freshly deflowered virgin means one of two things,” Leonardo said thoughtfully, and Volpe groaned. “Either the sex was so good that he’s still waddling, two days later, or he went _back_ to Machiavelli’s bed last night.”

 “How the hell did you— _or,_ last night was our first time!”

 Leonardo grinned. “Were that true, you wouldn’t be so affronted that I already knew the truth.”

 Volpe stopped and scowled. “Damn. Fine. I fucked Machiavelli _twice_.” Well—on two separate nights. If he counted he actual number of fucks…no, never mind, he ached just thinking about it.

 “Good!” Ezio said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Make a permanent bedmate out of him, who knows, it may improve his generally dour disposition.”

 Volpe actually paused to think about that. True—Machiavelli made most of his rounds around the hideout, and around Roma, with a scowl on his face and an irritable twitch in his step. But he had been nothing short of cheery in bed—smiling and laughing, his voice and temper every bit as gentle as his hands (and then some, because his hands knew when roughness when necessary and pleasurable). That smile had lost its caustic edge when he had Volpe beneath him.

 The thief was startled from his musings by a finger flicking his nose and Ezio’s stupidly grinning visage invading his field of vision. “Where did you go, _amico_?”

 “Reminiscing about the night out of his wildest fantasies,” Leonardo said, returning to his flying machine, and Ezio burst into loud laughter again.

 Scowling, Volpe got up out of his seat. “Fuck yourselves and then each other and then yourselves again,” he said, and left the studio, leaving the laughing pair to themselves.

 

* * *

Volpe didn’t return to Machiavelli’s bed—not right away. He tried to distance himself; he avoided the hideout as if it carried the plague. For three days he took hot baths to soothe his well-used body. Lust nipped at his heels and scratched at every waking moment of his consciousness; he felt the weight of his newfound lover in his dreams and woke with a desperate ache between his legs that wouldn’t give him peace until he attended it.

 For three days, he hoped that would be enough—but on the fourth night, when he could stand it no longer, he crept back to the hideout.

 Machiavelli worked most nights late at his desk, bent over this or that contract and managing this or that request, or tending the pigeons, or skulking around the hideout looking for supplies that needed replenishing and recruits that needed scolding. When Volpe found the assassin at none of his usual haunts, he wandered up to Machiavelli’s quarters.

 He found the young man asleep in his bed—nothing profane, no lovers, no naked courtesans or thoroughly seduced recruits. He found Machiavelli laid bare and stripped of his devices, sleeping soundly with a book open on his chest and the candles burning low.

 Moving carefully, Volpe seated himself on the bed. He had never seen the assassin sleep—not like this, anyway. Fitful dozes on top of his desk, yes. But never this deep, quiet slumber, with the candlelight darkening the circles beneath his eyes and his hair tousled, his clothes askew. Volpe hesitated before reaching for him, brushing a thumb across Machiavelli’s lips before trailing a slow touch down his chest, his abdomen; he hovered for a moment, and then ran the back of his knuckles across the modest bulge in the younger man’s hose. Machiavelli stirred but didn’t wake, hips shifting into the touch, a quiet sigh escaping him when Volpe repeated the shy caress.

 Volpe stretched out on the bed, made himself comfortable. He wrapped his arms around the younger man’s thighs and moved in close, pressing his mouth to the clothed outline of Machiavelli’s cock and sucking softly along the length until he found the tip and ran his tongue along the fabric hiding it from his attentions.

 “Niccolò,” he murmured, just to taste the name in his mouth, because this whole time he’d only called the younger man by his surname. He slid a hand into his own hose and exhaled shakily against the stirring length beneath his caressing mouth, closing his eyes and letting in the delicious flood of memories—being pressed into the bed, kissed firmly, hands hoisting his legs around Machiavelli’s waist while hips ground down against his, being taken, filled, Machiavelli biting his throat and moaning into the nape of his neck. “Niccolò…”

 “Yes?”

 Volpe’s head snapped up. The assassin strewn across the bed lifted an eyebrow, slowly setting his book aside.

 “…Uh.”

 “Is there a reason you’re molesting me in my sleep?”

 “… _Uh._ You said you wanted me to?”

 Machiavelli’s mouth twitched into the hint of a grin. “You were awake for that, were you?”

 “Erm. Yes.”

 A real smile this time, warm and lofty. “Are you touching yourself?”

 Volpe shivered. “Yes.”

 “While literally panting over my cock.”

 Volpe should have had a biting retort for that, but that smile was so tempting and so beautiful, and he groaned when he unthinkingly tightened his grip on his own member. “Yes.”

 Machiavelli bit his lip, spreading his legs a little more, letting Volpe edge just a hair closer. At length he lifted one long leg and draped it over the thief’s back, eliminating the last semblance of space between them.

 “I thought I might have been dreaming,” he murmured, and Volpe moaned outright at the taste of precum seeping through the assassin’s hose.

 “You dream of me?”

 “All the time.”

 Volpe nuzzled his mouth against the curve of Machiavelli’s cock, smiling and tugging on the laces of his hose with his teeth. “You don’t just want to fuck me, do you.”

 “No.” Machiavelli rocked his hips up into Volpe’s mouth, exhaling slowly. “Don’t tease…”

 “You’re… fond of me.”

 “… ‘Fond’ is a very strong word.”

 Volpe laughed at that, hooking his fingers into the waistband of his newfound lover’s hose and tugging them down. “May I touch you?”

 “Please,” Machiavelli murmured, and shuddered so powerfully at the first swipe of the thief’s tongue on his bare flesh that Volpe had to clamp a hand around the base of his own cock to keep from coming. “Volpe— _please_.”

 Volpe couldn’t say it wasn’t strange—he’d slept with men before, yes, but only a bare few, and he’d never had another man in his mouth. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, or how well, but he liked it—liked the weight and heat of the assassin’s erection in his mouth and the taste of him in the back of his throat. He thrilled at their role reversal, at having the savvy Machiavelli lying beneath him, a helpless, moaning mess at his touch. He drew off the younger man’s cock with a wet _pop_ and let his mouth hover, teasing, just to watch Machiavelli groan at being made to wait.

 “Hey,” he murmured, mouthing softly around the assassin’s tip, relishing the trail of pink that flared up in the wake of his tongue, “I don’t want to fuck again unless you actually like me.”

 Machiavelli sat up suddenly, making the thief jump, and hooked a hand around Volpe’s jaw, guiding their mouths together in a kiss so deep and so slow that Volpe’s breath caught. He pressed his hips into Machiavelli’s without thinking, pressed their bodies flush and pushed the younger man back into the bed, moaning against the gentle pressure of his mouth.

 “I like you,” Machiavelli panted. “I like you very, very much. I have liked you for a very long time.”

Volpe scowled, biting his way down the younger man’s throat and taking his cock in hand. Machiavelli moaned for him, arching up into the rough touch. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

 The assassin grinned and reached for him, ruffling his fingers through Volpe’s hair. “I liked the game too much.”

 “More than you liked me?”

 Machiavelli’s features slid into a pout, and he pushed down on Volpe’s head. “Will you go back to sucking me off now?”

 “You’re an ass.”

 “You’re an idiot with a pretty face.”

 “That’s no way to talk to someone if you want them to suck your cock,” Volpe growled, nipping sharply at the younger man’s stomach, but then he was soothing the bite with soft kisses, relishing the flex of Machiavelli’s abdominal muscles at the attention. “Stop being so goddamn attractive.”

 “Stop talking and put that mouth to better use.”

 But Volpe was licking at him before he’d even finished speaking, mouthing along his entire length before a wet tongue swept across his tip. Machiavelli dropped his head back against the pillows, thrusting his hips up into that sinful mouth and huffing a quiet apology when Volpe grunted at him and swatted his ass. Suddenly the thief coughed and lifted his head, eyes widening when Machiavelli lifted his head to frown at him.

 “W-What?”

 “You just—you know—in my mouth. When I hit your ass.” The thief grinned when Machiavelli’s ears turned vibrantly red. “You liked that?”

 “Oh, shut up.”

 “You did, didn’t you?”

 “I said shut _up_ , Volpe!”

 The thief cackled, crawling up the length of Machiavelli’s body to press kisses to his collarbone. “So! Even the strutting peacock has secret desires.”

 “Is that—please tell me you don’t refer to me that way on a regular basis.”

“Of course I do. Tell me what else you like.”

 “No.”

 “Please? I can just go back to insulting you, if you’d prefer. Or I can hit you again. Only your ass, though. It’s sort of—what’s the word? Cathartic? I get to take out all of my frustration _and_ make you cum.”

 “ _Jesus_ , Volpe. Can we just go back to—”

 “I don’t feel like it now.” Volpe rested his chin on the younger man’s chest, waggling his eyebrows at him. “But I can use my mouth in other places?”

 Machiavelli’s blush was in his cheeks now, spreading across the bridge of his nose and darkening when Volpe began to grind against him, angling his hips up so the thief’s erection pressed into his ass. “—Um. No one’s ever…not to me.”

 “Oh _ho_ , you don’t say?” Volpe grinned and leaned in close to suck at the assassin’s lower lip, pulling away before Machiavelli could turn the caress into a proper kiss. “Mm. And here you were acting so high and mighty, pretending to be this _master_ of seduction.”

 The assassin scowled, and Volpe yelped as he found himself tumbling sideways, landing on his back with a muffled _“Umph”_ before looking up at Machiavelli looming over him, pinning his wrists to the bed.

 “I _am_ a master of seduction,” the younger man retorted, arching an eyebrow when Volpe struggled against his hold. “And quite strong, I’ll have you know, though you wouldn’t know it from looking at me.”

 “Damn right,” Volpe growled, snapping his teeth when Machiavelli leaned in to kiss him. “You have the body of an eel.”

 “That’s almost an insult to us both. Now lie still and let me have you.”

 Volpe huffed, the next slick kiss wrenching a moan from him before he could halt it. “Mmn—wait—Machiavelli—”

 “Don’t. It’s Niccolò.” The assassin drew back just enough that he could frown down at his bedmate. “To you, anyway.”

 “Niccolò,” Volpe agreed, and pushed himself up to run his tongue across Machiavelli’s swollen lips before kissing him firmly, and the assassin pushed into him with greedy want, hands releasing his wrists to grope at his ass and pull his body flush to his lover’s. “Niccolò—one more thing—”

 “Oh, for Chrissakes—”

 “Sorry! Just—don’t leave before I wake up this time.”

 Machiavelli paused, canting his head to the side, letting Volpe chase his mouth with a soft kiss before answering him. “I assumed you wouldn’t want to spend the morning with me.”

 “Well, maybe not before. But now, I—” Volpe hesitated, lifting a hand to brush questioning fingertips along Machiavelli’s mouth, and he saw the assassin bristle at the intimacy in the touch, but he pressed on. “Just—please stay, Niccolò.”

 Machiavelli watched him, expression guarded, the muscles in his chest and shoulders and back coiled. Volpe settled back against the bed and cautiously opened his legs, let Machiavelli’s hips settle between his thighs. He didn’t think he’d ever been fully clothed in a bed for so long, but he hoped the waiting would make their joining that much more exquisite.

 “Stay,” he repeated, almost in a whisper, and this time Machiavelli kissed him, tangling his hands in Volpe’s hair and moaned quietly into his mouth, letting the thief roll them over so they could entwine arms and legs, press so close they might have been trying to melt into one body.

 “Alright,” Machiavelli murmured, hands sliding down to tug at the laces of Volpe’s hose. “I will.”

 

* * *

 

 Ezio took one look at them when they rejoined him in the hideout the next morning—disheveled, tired, both sporting visible bruises on necks and jaws, Machiavelli’s hair a wild pincushion of dark spikes and Volpe’s an unruly mop— and dissolved into hysterics, turning away and resting his head against the nearest wall while he laughed, clutching his sides.

 “ _Jesus_ ,” he gasped, looking over his shoulder at them and suppressing another round of giggles. “Got what you wanted then, Machiavelli?”

 “Yes,” the younger assassin replied lightly, and slid a hand down to squeeze Volpe’s ass; the thief jumped and swatted him away, bristling. “And then some. Where’s my money?”

“You’re still  _taking_ it?” Volpe said incredulously, while Ezio—with renewed laughter—passed Machiavelli a small sack of florins. “Are you  _shitting me?_ ”

 Machiavelli shrugged. “Well, it’s mine. Short ten florins,” he added, scowling at the grandmaster, who smiled impishly, “but mine all the same. I’m willing to give you a fourth, for playing your part.”

 “A fou—oh, go to _hell_ , you parsimonious, over-inflated piece of shit!”

 “Where do you learn all these words?”

 “I looked them up in search of terms sufficient to describe how repulsive I find _you_!”

 “That’s hurtful.”

 “Like I give a damn! Go fuck yourself, both of you!”

 Machiavelli grinned at Ezio. “He’s so lovely when he’s angry.”

 “Fuck _off!_ ”

 “I’ll see you tonight, correct?”

 “Yes! But fuck off until then!” Volpe made to storm out, but was stopped by Machiavelli’s hand around his wrist. “What?”

 “You forgot to kiss me goodbye.”

 The thief stared, speechless, and after several long seconds of silence, leaned in and kissed Machiavelli firmly, licking hungrily at his mouth, still pink from last night’s affections.

 “Mm.” Machiavelli licked his lips and quirked an eyebrow upward, flashing Volpe his infuriating grin. “Thank you. See you tonight.”

 “Fuck off,” Volpe repeated, and strode out, leaving Machiavelli and Ezio laughing behind him.

 

 


	42. First

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As in, first shameless porn of the New Year, AND first hook-up. Banzai

Niccolò awoke and struggled in vain to fall back into blissful unconsciousness. He felt heavy and tired, and in a far-off, distant sort of way, something was beginning to hurt. He kept his eyes closed, tried to wander back toward sleep, blessed  _ sleep _ , but the pain sharpened with each passing moment, and with it, his clarity. What began as an ache evolved into a horrible burn that radiated from between his legs and up his back; his scalp felt sore, his hairline tender; his lips stung when his tongue darted out to wet them, and he tasted blood. 

When at last he was far too uncomfortable to have any hope of returning to sleep, he pushed himself upright—tried, anyway. Something in his lower abdomen  _ pulled _ , and the pain of it was so intense he fell back against the pillows, gasping and pressing a hand to his lower back, mumbling curses until the pain abated. 

While he recovered, he took stock of his surroundings. The window shutters were drawn, but beams of moonlight fell through the cracks. He didn’t need the dim lighting to know he was nowhere of positive repute. The air stank of wine and sweat; the bed beneath him felt like straw. His skin prickled and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He didn’t want to  _ be here _ any longer.

Standing took all of his strength, but at length he managed to stagger to his feet. For the first time he made note of his nakedness, and fumbled in the dark with weak, tottering steps until he managed to root out his clothes from amidst the mess of blankets on the floor. He dressed himself somewhat clumsily, stepping into his hose and boots and pulling his tunic over his head with a wince; why did his shoulders ache so badly? He made to tie his tunic and froze at the sight of his wrists. Even in the dimness, he could make out the burns, and register a new pain he had somehow ignored before. Even the touch of linen upon the wounds was unbearable; he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and tossed his coat over his shoulder before pushing the door open. 

The night air greeted him like an old friend, and he stood gulping it in, trying to clear the fuzziness in his head and the ringing in his ears. He recognized where he was only because he’d seen it by the light of day—a tiny cluster of ramshackle homes that stood in the Roman countryside. He turned and squinted into the room. He’d awoken in little more than a shack. He put some distance between himself and it, but the ache in his body couldn’t be outrun. He staggered after a hundred steps and leaned against a tree for support.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, and winced, running a hand across his lips. His fingertips came away bloody, and myriad small wounds stung and burned at the touch. “ _ Fuck _ .”

Teeth. Sharp and firm, pulling at his lips, biting, making him bleed, rough hands throwing him onto his stomach, pinning his arms behind his back and binding his wrists, those teeth latching onto exposed skin while his clothes were pulled away—Niccolò swallowed and lifted a hand to his shoulder, flinching when he found the open wound. It came back to him in bits and pieces. A dim-lit tavern frequented often by that unholy trifecta of carnal sinners—the prostitutes, the adulterers, the sodomites. Had he been all three last night? He remembered a soldier, burly and foul-smelling, and a hand grasping his ass and a growled invitation in his ear—

Niccolò froze, frowning. Why had he…? Why had he  _ accepted _ ? The tavern had been near the Vaticano district. He had—quite soberly— met some oaf in a bar and followed him across Rome for the most brutal sex he’d ever endured because…?

He checked his pockets. No money. He wasn’t a prostitute, at least. (Unless he’d left the evidence back in the shack. Or been robbed.) But he was still foggy and bleeding and aching in the middle of a field outside of Rome. He checked himself over once more, running careful hands over his body. His lips still bled freely, and the achy itch in his scalp suggested that the oaf had been a hair-puller. His throat and teeth felt fine—at least he hadn’t had that beast’s cock in his mouth (or he had, and it had been small enough to do no damage—that was a rather cheering thought, somehow). His insides burned and seared with every motion, no matter how small. He’d been hurt, then, during the sex itself. Unsurprising. He stopped when his hands found the juncture of his legs and groaned, palpating gently before giving in and pulling his waistband open. His manhood was in poor shape. His  _ cock _ was bruised, how the fuck had that happened? He was half-hard, his testicles swollen and sore. When he tasted bile in the back of his throat, he cinched up his hose and pushed off the tree. 

The cool night air, a salve compared to the stifling stink of the shack, began to bite at his skin. Shivering, he pulled on his coat and found his belt missing. He held it closed with his arms crossed over his chests, ignoring the way his shoulders ached and creaked. Those burns on his wrists—ah, yes. Bound behind his back with a length of rough, salty rope. He remembered the oaf using the binding as a handhold while he… well. That explained why his shoulders hurt, as well. 

Niccolò walked without knowing where he was going. Rome glittered in the dark, torchlight warming the dark sky, but the cold bit at him and sank down into his bones. He more shuffled than walked, scuffing his boots in the dirt. 

He’d walked—staggered—perhaps a mile when he heard the unmistakable sounds of a party. Laughter floated to him across the quiet countryside, and he made out a circle of torches, felt more than heard the stomping of dancing feet. Without planning to do so, he turned toward those gentle sounds. Even facing a party full of goggling strangers would be better than wandering around in the dark.

It wasn’t until he was upon them that he realized he was at the thieves’ guild. 

His stomach turned. He recognized these men, faces he had seen in passing, faces that had given him smiles when he slipped florins into willing hands and directed them toward guards. He kept his head down and turned up the collar of his coat as he staggered past a few thieves gambling on the fringe of the party. Something pulled in his lower back and he paused, pressing a hand against the nearest wall and gritting his jaw against a swell of nausea. 

“ _ Messere _ ?” A courtesan stopped and peered at him, a frown on her pretty features. “Are you well?”

No. He wasn’t well. He was very much unwell, in fact, but he dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand and pushed away from the wall. That awful  _ pulling _ again, somewhere deep, deep inside, and the courtesan squealed when his legs went out from under him. He felt his head make hard contact with the ground and lay still, trying to breathe around the terrible pain twisting up his guts. Fool. What a fool. He reviled his own self-hatred, whatever small, frail boy existed inside him, whispering twisted things into the back of his skull, a boy who had been a bastard, who had only been Niccolò di Bernardo for so long and then he’d become Niccolò Machiavelli because an old man on his deathbed had judged him  _ worthy _ — _ but you aren’t, are you, you never were— _

“Machiavelli?”

That voice. He knew that voice. He turned his head and opened his eyes. La Volpe knelt beside him, head canted to the side, and a very slight smile touched his wry mouth when Niccolò looked at him.

“See, Principa?” The master thief turned to the hovering courtesan. “I told you he wasn’t dead. No need to alarm anyone, just go back to the party.” The girl nodded and hurried away, clearly relieved, and Volpe turned back to his visitor. “Now, then. How came you to be on the ground outside my home?”

Niccolò blinked at him. His head hurt. He licked his lips and winced when they stung. “I was… in the area.”

“Is that so? So far from _ la Isola Tiberina _ ?”

“Y-yes.”

“Ezio had no need of you tonight?”

If Ezio did, he would just have to tough it out. “No. Help me up.”

“Mm.” Volpe’s smile softened, and he made no move to oblige Niccolò’s request. “You’re hurt,  _ amico. _ ”

“I’m fine.” 

“I saw you fall.”

“I’m  _ fine. _ ” Niccolò pushed himself up on one elbow and found he could go no further. He bit down the urge to vomit and shakily planted his other palm in the dirt, struggling to push himself upright. With an acquiescing sigh, Volpe looped an arm around his waist.

“Alright, alright. Here. Easy now. Let’s get you inside.”

Niccolò didn’t want to be brought inside—he wanted a good fast horse with a padded saddle that would carry him back to his own bed—actually, all the way back to Florence—but as he couldn’t stand under his own power, he let Volpe help him around the throng of party-goers and into the guild’s inn.  _ La Volpe Addormentata  _ had never looked quite so welcoming. 

“My rooms,” Volpe said, tugging on Niccolò when the younger man made to collapse into a chair in the front room. The party had evidently started here; unconscious thieves, some still clutching wine bottles, lay slumped over nearly every surface. “I suspect you will want privacy when I undress you.” 

Niccolò knew it was a jape, but he wasn’t in the mood, and Volpe frowned a little when his joke was met with sullen silence. Rather than press the issue, he helped Niccolò up the stairs and into his room. Volpe had chosen for himself a small, quiet space—not so unlike an animal’s den, Niccolò thought wryly, as the thief helped him sit down on the humble bed. That tugging ache had become a sharp, stabbing pain with each step up the stairs, and Niccolò pressed a hand gingerly to his lower belly, focusing on steadying his breathing while Volpe puttered around his room, collecting medical supplies. 

“ _ Ehi _ , Angelo!” Volpe called, sticking his head out the door, and a reedy voice called back in reply. “Bring me some hot water!”

“That’s not necessary,” Niccolò began, but fell silent when Volpe abruptly knelt in front of him and grasped him by the chin, leaning in too close for the assassin’s comfort. “What—”

“Did you know him?”

“ _ What _ ?”

“The man who did this to you.” Volpe’s thumb brushed the cuts on Niccolò’s mouth, and his hair stood on end. There was something  _ off _ about the tone of the thief’s voice—something almost chilling. That happy, eager glow in his eyes had vanished, leaving cold fury in its wake. “Did you see his face? Catch his name?”

“I—no. I don’t—there was no—”

“Don’t lie to me.” Volpe released his chin and tapped a finger against the hollow of his throat. “You’re bruised. Here, and here…” His fingers inched to the left, drawing Niccolò’s open tunic away from his collarbone. “Here as well.”

“I, um—a bar scuffle, that was all—”

“Oh, yes?” Volpe said, arching an eyebrow. “And during this scuffle, a man bit your lips and sucked on your throat?”

Niccolò fell silent, dropping his gaze, and Volpe got up to answer a timid knock on the door— “Thank you, my boy”— before returning, sitting beside Niccolò on the bed and submerging a cloth in the bowl of hot water.

“Look at me.”

“I’m fine.”

“Look at me, or I’ll hold you down and inspect you by force.”

Niccolò scowled and turned to look at the thief, infuriated by the smile that quirked that mouth. Volpe began to dab at the wounds on his mouth, apologizing in low tones when Niccolò flinched and the cuts began to bleed anew.

“A man’s bites tend to fester, more so than those from animals,” the thief said at length. “You’ll want to apply a salve until they heal.”

“I wasn’t raped.”

Volpe paused. He lowered the cloth back into the bowl and tilted his head to the side, scrutinizing Niccolò carefully. “Well. That’s a relief. But, given that you were obviously subjected to such rough treatment, and that you collapsed outside, I’m disinclined to believe you.”

“I know what it looks like.” Niccolò licked at his bleeding lips. “But I was willing.”

“And able? Conscious?” Volpe’s eyes darted to the bruises on the younger man’s neck. “Did he force you while you were drunk?”

“Yes, yes, and no.”

Volpe’s brows drew together. “And yet, he hurt you.”

“Well, my mother always said that men are beasts.” Niccolò tried to crack a smile and pressed a hand over his mouth with a muffled groan when his lips stung in protest. Horror tightened his insides when Volpe grasped his arm and pulled it close, eyes widening at the sight of the burns on his wrist. “That’s not—”

“You were bound?”

“Yes, but—”

“Where else did he hurt you?”

“Volpe—”

“Where else?!”

Niccolò pulled his arm free. “It’s none of your—” But his insides  _ pulled _ and he curled in on himself with a hard gasp, clenching his eyes shut against the pain. 

“Fuck.” Volpe’s hands settled on him with infinite gentleness, guiding him onto his side. “You shouldn’t still be in pain. Did he use oil?”

“I don’t know.” Niccolò sucked in a breath when he felt Volpe’s hands fumbling with the laces of his hose. “Please. Don’t.” He hated the brokenness of his own voice,  _ hated _ how weak he sounded, but then Volpe’s hand settled on the side of his head.

“It’s alright, Niccolò. I’m going to take care of you. Let me see your wounds so I can tend them properly.”

Niccolò forced himself to relax. Volpe was snide and tricky and things hadn’t always been amicable between them, but he was essentially a good man. Jaw clenched, Niccolò nodded. The thief finished undoing his hose and tugged them down, taking care not to touch more than was absolutely necessary. Niccolò squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to feel the hand that slid down to his ass to briefly hold him open.

“You’re bleeding,” Volpe murmured. “ _ Amico _ , if you’re torn…”

“How can we know?”

Volpe hesitated for a breath. “I can—it will be uncomfortable.”

Niccolò swallowed and pressed his hands to his face, just long enough to assemble his composure. “If I am, and don’t seek treatment—”

“You’ll die,” Volpe said flatly. “I trust I don’t need to explain why a wound like that would become foul.”

The assassin actually smiled a little at that. “No. Do what you must.”

Volpe nodded, and his weight left the bed. Niccolò listened to him rummaging around in a drawer; while the thief was distracted, he slid a hand down to his ass, and his heart leapt into his throat at the wetness. He had bled a little when he’d first taken a man, but nothing like this, and aside from a little residual ache the morning after, it had been nowhere near so painful. 

Volpe returned to the bed and took a moment to clean away the worst of the blood before uncorking the retrieved bottle of oil with his teeth. Niccolò looked up at the little  _ pop _ and swallowed.

“Volpe, you don’t—I mean—I really can’t ask you to—”

“Stick my fingers up your ass?” Volpe finished, and grinned when the assassin’s cheeks turned red. “Worry not. It’s hardly my first time.”

Wroth as he was to admit it, that statement brought Niccolò a little relief. “So you’ve—um—you also—”

“Sleep with men. Yes. You’ll find no judgement here, my unfortunate friend. If we all must sin, we might as well enjoy ourselves.” A wet, warm finger circled Niccolò’s entrance, and he stiffened. “Try to relax. If it hurts too much, let me know.”

It couldn’t possibly hurt worse than having that oaf’s cock pushing into him with nothing to ease his way, but Niccolò nodded. He clutched at the sheets with a hiss when that finger entered him, a harsh cry escaping his mouth before he could head it off, and Volpe pressed a hand to his back, soothing him with soft murmurs while he began to gently palpate the younger man’s insides. 

“ _ Ungh _ —nn—Volpe—”

“I know, I know—it will be over soon. Bear with me.” 

Niccolò pressed his face into the nearest pillow. It smelled like Volpe. As much as this  _ hurt _ , as much as he wanted to recoil away from this intrusion into his wounded body, occasionally Volpe’s finger would swipe over his prostate, and the little ripple that traveled up his spine with every accidental touch was anything but painful. The pain suddenly felt very far away—Niccolò cast his mind around, trying to think of something else, anything else, but then Volpe’s fingertip found that swollen area again and  _ pressed _ , and Niccolò’s cock was awakening and thickening before he could—

“I think you’re alright,” Volpe said, and withdrew, leaving Niccolò gasping. “I know it was painful, I’m sorry—you’re raw, that’s all. No serious wounds. You should be fine.”

“Thank you,” Niccolò said, praying his voice wouldn’t betray his arousal, wishing more than  _ anything _ that he could reclaim control of his own body, but he’d been half-hard when he left the shack and he was full-hard now. 

“I know you’ve asserted the negative, but…” Volpe shook his head as he sat up to wring out the cloth and wet it again in the water. “Do you swear that this wasn’t…”

“I went with him,” Niccolò bit out. “I met him, we went back to this—I don’t know—and he had me and then he left.”

“That wasn’t—your first time, was it? Taking a man inside of you.”

“No,” Niccolò said, and even his ears felt hot. “I knew what I was doing.”

“You must have known that he would—um—that he was the unsavory type.”

Niccolò laughed shortly. “Yes. I knew.”

“...Then why?”

The assassin glared at him. “It’s none of your business, Volpe. Nor any of your concern.” Unthinkingly, he sat up and made to stand. “Thank you for looking after me, but—”

Volpe stiffened and took a step back, and Niccolò realized his mistake a second too late and then couldn’t find the will to move; he sat there with his legs open, hands braced on the edge of the bed while he gazed down stupidly at his straining cock. Something about brutal, violent sex had made him quite abandon his mental faculties, it seemed.

“Um,” he said, and then couldn’t think of anything else to say. Instead he just sat, staring at himself, enduring the silence while it drew agonizingly on across seconds, then a full minute. 

He heard Volpe move forward, but didn’t look up—couldn’t. His cheeks and ears burned. He licked his lips, but the stinging of his wounds seemed a million leagues away. Volpe stopped in front of him; Niccolò allowed himself a moment to appreciate how stylish the thief’s boots were. Too stylish for a man of his means and—oh, wait. He’d probably stolen them. Of course. 

“Machiavelli.”

Oh, God. He couldn’t look up. That was, until Volpe crouched down in front of him, and Niccolò hurriedly looked up at the ceiling. He braced himself for—for whatever was coming next. He couldn’t imagine being taken again. But Volpe was  _ close _ , so close, Niccolò could feel his breath on his—

And then, there it was—the softest of touches, a wet, warm tongue stroking his tip, so brief and fleeting he may have imagined it. Niccolò closed his eyes. Exhaled. He heard Volpe lick his lips. Felt those lips edge closer, felt more than heard Volpe’s whisper.

“May I?”

But his lips brushed the swollen cock before him even as he spoke, and without thinking Niccolò was rolling his hips forward with a soft, breathy sound that  _ couldn’t _ have actually come from  _ him _ , and Volpe’s mouth opened and tasted him eagerly, humming around his tip when Niccolò thrust his length past those warm lips. He made himself look down and almost wished he hadn’t—not because it wasn’t  _ beautiful _ , not because he was suddenly  _ wanting _ something he hadn’t ever been aware of wanting, but  _ because _ it was all of that, because while he watched Volpe drew back to kiss his tip and pearly pre-cum touched his lips, and suddenly Niccolò hadn’t wanted someone to suck him so badly in his entire  _ life _ . 

He slid a hand into Volpe’s hair—slowly, asking permission—and sighed his relief when the thief leaned into the touch, encouraging, and ran his tongue along the underside of Niccolò’s shaft, mapping the veins already dark with blood. 

“Lovely,” Volpe murmured, and chuckled when Niccolò’s cock twitched in response, as if sensing it had been complimented. “I can’t imagine how anyone could hurt something so lovely, when it was given so willingly.”

“Volpe—”

“Gilberto.” The thief mouthed softly—very softly—against a bruise just below the younger man’s tip. “I prefer that my lovers call me by my name. He left marks. Do you know how?”

“I’m not sure. I think he—” Niccolò paused, trying to sort through the night’s turbulent memories. “Um. His hands, I think.” 

“Fool,” Volpe said quietly, and Niccolò shuddered at the dark, violent edge in his tone. “Lie back,  _ bello _ . If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to make you cum.”

The thief laughed when Niccolò hurriedly shuffled back on the bed and lay back, holding himself up on his elbows and staring with breathless anticipation while the thief climbed up after him, unhurried, watching him like an animal stalking prey. He crawled up the assassin’s body, not touching, not  _ not _ touching, the occasional brush of his cloak across bare skin awaking  _ want _ that Niccolò had never thought himself capable of feeling. Volpe only paused when they were nose to nose, eyes locked, sharing the same air. The question was there in the silence—Niccolò nodded, breathless, and closed his eyes when a slow, chaste kiss met his mouth. His lips burned, but Volpe’s tongue swept across one of the fresh wounds and Niccolò opened for him, lifting his hips with a stuttered gasp when a large, warm hand wrapped around his cock. 

“Mm.” Volpe drew back and licked his lips, a smile playing around his mouth. “I like the way you taste,  _ bello _ .”

“Oh,  _ fuck _ ,” Niccolò mumbled, because he wasn’t sure how to respond to seduction like this, because he wanted Volpe’s tongue in his mouth and on his cock at the same time, because that hand was jerking him off with slow, gentle strokes that made every muscle in his lower body clench with want. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Fuck me. Suck me. Just— _ please _ .”

Volpe chuckled, dark and tonal. “As you wish.”

* * *

 

Niccolò woke the way a lover should wake—sleepy and sated, his hips moving very much against his will, grinding his crotch against the warm thigh nestled between his legs. He groaned, lifting a hand up to his face, and Volpe laughed in his ear before wrapping a hand around his cock. 

“Good morning.”

“Good— _ mmn. _ Oh,  _ God _ .”

“Never been woken up like this?”

“...No.” Niccolò closed his eyes, let his mouth fall open in a soundless gasp at the wet,  _ filthy _ sound Volpe’s palm made against his skin. “I can’t— _ ungh _ —please, I can’t  _ come _ anymore.”

“I doubt that very much,” Volpe whispered, and his mouth softly traced the bite wound on Niccolò’s shoulder. “Are you in pain?”  
Niccolò lay still for a moment, listening to his body, and breathed a slow sigh. “No. Not so much.”

“Good.” Volpe squeezed his ass—a gentle, playful thing, touch for touch’s sake—and pulled him a little closer. “Mm. Have you always been so muscular?”

“Yes?”

“Why didn’t I ever notice before?”

Probably for the same reason Niccolò had never noticed the sensual shape of the thief’s lips, or how dark his eyes could become, or how broad his shoulders were—sheer force of will. Keeping himself from wanting what he knew he couldn’t have. Or  _ thought _ . “We never went back to the party.”

“No. We didn’t.”

“People will talk.”

Volpe chuckled, his breath warm against Niccolò’s bare shoulder. “They talk already. There have been rumors flying about you and I for some time now, didn’t you know?”

“I didn’t.” Niccolò—wroth was he was to remove himself from that delicious contact between his legs—rolled onto his other side, pillowing his head on his arm and frowning at the thief. “Why you and I, of all people?”

“Some think that such open hostility can only be a cover for carnal desires.” Volpe smiled, leaning in close and pressing a soft kiss to the younger man’s mouth. Niccolò’s lips stung, but he found he didn’t mind. “It would appear that they are right.”

“I didn’t know there was anything between us.”

“Is that so? For someone so brilliant, you’re rather dim.”

Niccolò scowled. He had half a mind to slap the thief, but Volpe—still smiling, a fox that has caught its prey—kissed him again, slow and firm, and Niccolò gave in to it, opening his mouth for the thief’s hungry tongue and arching up into the body pressed intimately into his. Volpe—Gilberto—slid a hand into his hair, fingers smoothing over his aching scalp, nothing but chaste gentleness in that touch even if the press of his cock was a lewd promise. 

Gilberto drew back, sucking in a breath to replace the air he’d lost, and smiled even as Niccolò continued to grind against him, anchoring his hands on the older man’s waist and biting his lip at the sight of Volpe’s cock sliding against his. “Sorry. I shouldn’t kiss you before your wounds have healed.”

“It feels good,” Niccolò confessed in a murmur. “It  _ tastes _ good.”

Volpe’s eyes darkened, and he leaned back into the younger man with a quiet groan, letting Niccolò kiss him while he traced slow, heated touches along the assassin’s bruised body. “If I ever find the man who hurt you,” he whispered, tasting Niccolò’s lips even as he spoke, “I’m going to gut him.”

“You’ve more than amended the wrongs of another man, Vol—Gilberto. Be at peace.”

“Don’t do that again. Go to bed with someone you don’t know.” Volpe grasped the younger man’s chin and forced his gaze upward, briefly distracted by those pouty, swollen lips. “When you’re wanting, come to me.”

Niccolò took hold of the thief’s wrist and gently broke his grasp. “I don’t think it was sex I was after, Gilberto.”

“I know that. I know it very well.” Volpe’s gaze softened, and he ran a thumb across Niccolò’s mouth, arching his hips in an instinctive answer to the shudder that ran through the younger man’s body. “I don’t know why you’re punishing yourself, but no more. Permit yourself to receive kindness.”

Niccolò snorted. “By climbing into your bed?”

“By letting someone show you gentleness,” Volpe murmured, grinding into him, and Niccolò’s chuckle stuttered into a quiet gasp. “Show you pleasure. Show you—” He halted on ‘love’; he had long since recognized the nature of his complicate feelings for the assassin, but Niccolò clearly hadn’t. “Affection. And if you continue to hurt yourself, or let others hurt you…” He smiled, lowering a hand between them and giving Niccolò’s cock a firm squeeze. “I’ll know, and I shall be the one to mete out punishment. Am I understood?”

Niccolò was quiet, watching him, sizing him up, and la Volpe held fast and firm. At length, the assassin rolled his hips up into the thief’s touch, and he nodded. 

“It will be some time before I can be taken again.”

“Then you may have me,” Volpe replied easily, and smiled. “If that’s to your tastes.”

The younger man lunged up and kissed him, clumsy and overeager, and Volpe laughed. 


	43. 69

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because what else am I gonna call it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Facials and snowballs and the boys generally being nasty.
> 
> The new Fallout is fucking HARD.

“Come on—son of a bitch, come  _ on _ —” Gil ground his teeth, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, his controller clenched between his palms. “Son of a  _ fucking _ —God  _ dammit! _ ” He dropped the controller on the ground and threw himself back against the couch when his avatar exploded in a haze of gore. “Fuck  _ me! _ ”

“Hey.” Niccolò stepped into the living room, frowning at his fuming fiancé. “Settle down in here, I’m working.”

“You’re  _ writing _ ,” Gil snapped at him, arms crossed across his chest, fuming at the loading screen. 

“Which is what I do. For work. Because it's my job.”

“What, like it’s  _ hard _ ?”

Niccolò quirked an eyebrow upward. “How many times have you watched  _ Legally Blonde _ this week?”

“Twice.”

“Gil, that’s kind of sad.”

“Fuck you! Maybe you should spend more time developing strong female characters!”

“I write nonfiction.”

“Which is probably why your shit never sells. Because it’s boring as  _ fuck _ .”

Niccolò rolled his eyes and stepped into their living room, plopping down beside him on the couch while Gil tried to maneuver through the minefield that had killed him moments prior. “What are you playing?”

“The new  _ Fallout _ .”

“You really suck.”

“It’s  _ hard _ !” Gil snapped, tensing as he hopped away from a screaming fragmentation mine. “You can’t fucking  _ see _ the fucking mines until they’re right about to — _ fuck! _ ”

Niccolò covered his smile with one hand when the avatar’s head ricocheted across the screen. “Hey, Gil? You’re being really,  _ really _ pissy.”

“Because I’m pissed! This is not  _ fun _ , this is annoying as— _ fuck the goddamn Glowing Ones! I don’t have any RadAway! _ Fuck  _ off! _ ”

Niccolò sighed and placed a hand between Gil’s legs, giving him a squeeze. His fiancé tried to pull away, face drawn with irritation. 

“Not now.”

“You need to relax a little.”

“Don’t distract me, I’m trying to—” But Niccolò’s fingertips stroked over his balls and he fell silent, tongue in cheek.

“You’re about to die,” Niccolò said, pointing at the HP gauge in the corner. “Heal.”

“Thanks,” Gil grumbled.

“You’re getting hard.”

“Shut  _ up _ .”

Niccolò grinned, shifting in closer and pressing his mouth to the side of the older man’s neck, running his tongue along Gil’s racing pulse. While his lover pretended not to notice, Niccolò slid a hand down the front of his sweatpants, palming Gil’s cock through his boxers.

“Mind if I take these off?”

“I’m not pausing.”

“You don’t have to.” Niccolò leaned into him, biting gently at his jaw. “I just want to see your cock. Hm? That okay?”

Gil nodded stiffly, biting his lower lip when Niccolò pulled him out of his pants. Niccolò grinned, settling Gil’s waistband back into place and running a hand over the swollen cock trapped against his fiancé’s firm stomach. 

“I’ve never met a guy who got hard as fast as you do,” Niccolò said, almost nonchalant, propping an elbow on Gil’s shoulder and stroking the slit of his prick, relishing his fiancé’s quiet grunt. “And so dark. Maybe you’ve got fucked up blood pressure or something. When was the last time you had it checked?”

“My blood pressure is fine,” Gil said through gritted teeth. 

“You should quicksave.”

“Thanks.”

“So what do you want?” Niccolò flicked a finger against Gil’s tip, smothering a smile when his lover inhaled sharply, his hips arching. “You liked it the last time we fucked while you were playing, but maybe it won’t be as kinky when you’re not talking to someone over the network. Or I could just leave you like this. It’d be kind of a waste to finish you off too fast. We have, what, four hours before you’re supposed to seek medical attention?”

“Nic,” Gil growled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat while Niccolò tenderly stroked around the head of his cock. 

“Stimpak your buddy.”

“ _ Nic _ .”

“What? That turret took him out—”

“I’m going to take  _ you _ out if you don’t put my cock in your mouth.”

Niccolò grinned, leaning into Gil’s face to kiss him briefly (ignoring his fiancé’s vehement protests) before stretching out on the couch, resting his chin on Gil’s leg and tugging on his prick. “We’ve got to work on your self-control. It’s going to be embarrassing if you get hard during our wedding. Although it would be kind of funny. And hot.” He laughed when Gil’s cock twitched. “Does the thought of matrimony get you horny?”

“Not so much the matrimony as all the shit I’m going to do to you on our wedding night.” Gil nudged him with an elbow. “Help me hack this terminal.”

“Password starts with an S.”

“As in ‘suck me already’?’” 

Niccolò smiled and snuggled close, licking at the underside of Gil’s cock. “What mission is this?”

“I dunno, I’m looking for something for the Railroad—oh _ , fuck _ .” 

Niccolò drew his mouth off the head of Gil’s prick, licking his lips. “What for?”

“Niccolò, come  _ on _ .”

“You should have gone in through the secret passage. Easier that way.”

Gilberto fisted a hand in Niccolò’s hair and pushed him down, and Niccolò laughed before opening his mouth, letting his fiancé thrust his cock past his lips, moaning around the length sliding against his tongue. Gil put both hands back on the controller, exhaling slowly and pushing his hips up into Niccolò’s mouth until he heard his fiancé cough. 

“Touch yourself,” he mumbled, and Niccolò slid a hand into his slacks, grasping his own cock and pumping slowly while he bobbed his head. Gil moaned outright, missing a shot by several yards at least when Niccolò came up, running his tongue up the length of his lover’s erection. “How is it?”

“Quit fishing for compliments.” Niccolò coughed and licked at the swollen head, sweeping his tongue along the beaded precome and smiling when Gil’s breath stuttered. “You know I like how you taste.” He turned his head to frown at the screen. “You have to  _ hold _ left stick to hold your breath when aiming, not tap.”

“You better hold your breath while blowing me if you don’t want me tapping  _ you _ .”

“Clever.” Niccolò turned back into Gil’s crotch and ran his tongue along his fiancé’s balls before swallowing his cock again, moaning around him just to hear his fiancé gasp. He wrapped a hand around the base to attend what he couldn’t reach with his mouth, tilting his head to glance up at his fiancé. Gil was staring down at him, lip trapped between his teeth, completely ignoring his slaughtered avatar in favor of watching his lover suck him off. Niccolò pulled his own cock out of his pants and tugged hard, sweeping a thumb along the head, and abruptly Gil dropped his controller.

“Fuck this,” he muttered, and flopped down sideways against the couch, fisting a hand in Niccolò’s hair to keep his head in place while they shifted and adjusted. Niccolò grunted, squeezing his eyes shut and struggling to relax his throat when Gil’s cock slid in deep. Gil’s mouth was on him, sucking him, one hand still clutching at his hair while the other reached between his legs to squeeze at Niccolò’s ass. 

Niccolò propped himself up on an elbow—he loved his fiancé, but was less than pleased about having his nose pressed into Gil’s balls—and mouthed along the length of his cock, tilting his head to watch Gil suck on him. He hitched hips and smiled at the sensation of Gil’s mouth watering around him, his fiancé’s eyes fluttering closed while a soft moan escaped him. 

That hand tightened in his hair, and that was all the warning he got—he grunted his surprise when he tasted come on the back of his tongue, jerking back and swallowing with difficulty just in time to get his lover’s ejaculate all over his mouth and chin. Gilberto drew off his cock and burst into laughter, still shivering in the aftermath of his climax, sliding one hand up and down Niccolò’s spit-slick length while his fiancé sputtered at him. 

“Sorry—”

“You  _ asshole! _ ”

“ _ Sorry _ , I tried to tell you—sorry, babe, come here, shh…” Gil pushed him onto his back, straddling Niccolò’s face while he leaned down to suck on him with a little more urgency, hands cupped around his ass. Niccolò pushed himself up on his elbows and licked his fiancé from balls to hole, smirking at Gil’s weak little moan around his length. 

Niccolò lay back and closed his eyes, massaging Gil between the legs while his fiancé bobbed his head, enjoying the way the soft, wet sounds mixed with the music still emanating from the game. He folded his arms behind his head and glanced at the screen, smiling. 

“You keep dying.”

Gil sucked him down his throat and hummed, and Niccolò groaned, tipping his head back and shifting his hips upward. 

“Hey, I'm there…”

Gil came off his cock with a wet  _ pop _ , jerking him roughly in one hand, mouth open and tongue resting lightly against Niccolò’s tip. Niccolò felt his balls clench and, with one swift movement, wrapped an arm around Gil’s legs and flipped him, sending them both tumbling onto the ground. He scrambled up first, pushing Gil back down against the floor and grasping his cock in one hand. He straddled Gil’s shoulders and tugged on his weeping cock, jerking himself twice before coming with a grunt all over his fiancé’s face. Gil growled and pushed himself up, getting his mouth around Niccolò’s tip just in time to catch the last of his come. 

“What are you—” Niccolò paused, panting, and frowned when Gil pushed him off and sat up. “—No—no, Gil,  _ don’t you dare _ —”

But Gilberto grabbed his face and pulled him close, kissing him firmly, gripping his jaw to force his mouth open and tonguing him roughly while Niccolò batted at his chest and shoulders. 

“ _ Ungh! _ ” Niccolò finally pulled away and made a face, spitting a mouthful of his own ejaculate onto his grinning fiancé’s chest and wiping a hand across his mouth. “You  _ dick _ , see if I  _ ever _ give you a blowjob ever again…”

“It’s not that bad.” Gilberto leaned forward and licked Niccolò’s chin, swiping his tongue along the mess he’d made earlier. “Doesn’t even taste different.”

“That’s not the  _ point _ .”

“Thanks for blowing me.”

“Fuck off.”

Gilberto laughed, but it petered out when he looked down at himself. “Aw,  _ Nic. _ You spat that all over my shirt.”

“You tongued it back into my  _ mouth _ . Just wash it out.”

“Yeah, but I’m never going to be able to wear this shirt without thinking about you blowing it on my face and then I’m gonna get turned on and—”

“Wear it during our wedding,” Niccolò said at once, and Gilberto broke off into wild laughter, pulling his fiancé close while a turret gunned his avatar into oblivion.

“I’m sorry I said your writing was boring. You know I really like it.”

“I’m sorry you’re so bad at  _ Fallout 4 _ .”

“Oh, blow me.” Gilberto smiled and wound a hand into Niccolò's hair, nuzzling his face into his fiancé's broad shoulder. "I love you."

"I love you too. But if you ever snowball me again, I'm divorcing you."

"Fair enough."


	44. Bare

“You have such a pretty cock.”

There was a time—not so long ago—when those words might have had him blushing and scrambling out of bed, but now Niccolò looked up at the man straddling his lap and smiled. “You think so?”

“I do.” La Volpe wrapped an arm around his lover’s shoulders, biting at his lower lip when Niccolò’s thumb swept along the weeping head of his member. It felt so good to relax like this, with his legs slung casually over his partner’s hips while they stroked one another with soft, sure intimacy. “Why don’t we spend every waking moment naked in bed together?”

“A fair question,” Niccolò murmured, tipping his head up to accept a gentle kiss. “How can a cock be pretty?”

“I don’t know. It just is.” Volpe trailed a fingertip up and down the complimented length, smiling at the hand that tightened on his knee even while the other became slack around his erection. “You like that? Hm?” He leaned in and nipped at Niccolò’s lower lip, tongue flickering out to soothe the bite. “Your mouth is pretty, too.” 

Niccolò had to hide a grin at that, and Volpe laughed, nuzzling a kiss against the side of his lover’s neck. 

“And your smile. God, but I love your smile.” He kissed it to make his point, sighing when Niccolò’s mouth opened and a tongue swept out to stroke his. He tugged his lover in a little closer, tangling a hand in Niccolò’s dark hair while a strong arm wrapped around his lower back and pulled him flush to the younger man’s firm body. 

“Love you,” Niccolò murmured, more softly and more gently than Volpe had expected, and it made want coil tight and hot around the base of his cock, where Niccolò’s hand left slow touches that seared like open flame. “All of you. Everything about you. You know that, right?”

“You could stand to tell me— _ mm _ —a little more often.” Volpe hitched his hips forward, whimpering when Niccolò’s hand tightened and stroked him a little more quickly. “That’s—oh—Niccolò—”

The younger man grinned, smoothing a hand down Volpe’s back to give his ass a squeeze. “You know how beautiful I find you? How sensual, how miserably desirable…” He mouthed softly at Volpe’s neck, trailing wet kisses across his pulse. “How I  _ crave _ you when I don’t have you close…”

Volpe kissed him again, silencing that sweet mouth before words alone pushed him to climax. He pushed Niccolò against the headboard, readjusting in his lap until their hips were flush, Niccolò’s swollen cock sliding up against his. The younger man stuttered a moan into his lover’s mouth, eyes fluttering closed when Volpe began to thrust against him in a slow, sweet imitation of sex, hand going slack around the thief’s stiff member. 

“Gilberto— _ caro _ —”

“Hush,” Volpe whispered, stroking a thumb across his lover’s swollen lips and giving his cock a squeeze. Niccolò whimpered, arching up into his hand, nails digging into Volpe’s shoulder. “Come for me,  _ tesoro _ .”

Niccolò kissed him, deep and hungry and heated with want, and they spoke no more.


	45. Pigeons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love confident sexy Niccolò and cute dumb Niccolò to equal infinities.
> 
> I also hate chapters where I call him Machiavelli because the sexier it gets, the more I feel eyes glaring at me from somewhere in hell...brrr.

Just the sight of a pigeon was enough to get Volpe hard.

With good reason, he insisted to himself, taking a seat inside a roof garden and hunkering down beneath several lovely potted plants. The pigeons made him think of the assassins. The assassins made him think of Machiavelli. And Machiavelli made him think of every lewd, vulgar sex act he’d ever experienced or heard of or dreamed about. In reality, they hadn’t shared so much as a kiss; in the privacy of his own head, they’d fucked a hundred times, a thousand times, each time sweeter and more vibrant than the last.

Volpe rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes, digging his fingertips into his thighs. His cock pushed insistently against his hose, aching for the touch of a man who knew nothing of these… desires. Volpe told himself that they  _ were _ , in fact, just desires, just the ghosts of an unfulfilled whimsy, just  _ lust _ . Perhaps it was just his frequent agitation with the man coming out sideways. Weren’t love and hate supposedly two sides of the same coin? Not that he was in  _ love _ , certainly not. He was not catching feelings for that strutting peacock of a politico, he was  _ not _ . 

But even as he tried to talk himself out of it, out of this spiral where only madness lie, he slid a hand down the front of his hose and gently palmed his swelling cock, releasing a long, hard exhale at the relief in even so cautious a touch. No doubt Machiavelli would be just as gentle. He’d enjoy the tease, enjoy building the anticipation, turning Volpe’s body into a puppet for his own amusement. Volpe unlaced his hose and freed his erection, sighing and hitching his hips into his own touch. Just like that—long, steady fingers pulling away his clothes, piece by excruciating piece. 

He wouldn’t let Volpe undress him—the thief knew that much. No, to be stripped naked would be to reveal too much, to be near powerless, and Machiavelli would never permit it. He would have the thief bare as the day he was born before he, himself, took off  so much as his boots. Or would he? Maybe he’d be fearless—maybe he would kick his boots aside and shuck his coat, let Volpe pull open his tunic and tug at his hose, just to watch the thief scramble to bare the body he wanted so desperately. He’d watch with that crooked, knowing smile, the smile that drove Volpe  _ insane _ , the smile he wanted to punch and kiss inexplicably at the same time. 

What he wouldn’t give to just thrust his cock past those lips, satisfy his anger and his lust in one fell swoop, but no, of  _ course _ Machiavelli wouldn’t lower himself to that. He’d pin Volpe beneath him, bite marks into his neck, taste the thief’s pulse. He’d slip a knee between Volpe’s legs and watch him grind against the intrusion, smile at seeing his bedmate desperate for friction, desperate to be satisfied. 

And then— _ maybe _ —he’d touch Volpe where he wanted it most. The thief groaned, licking his lips and firming up his grip on his cock, stroking himself from base to tip and down again. Precome dribbled from the head, slicking his way, and for one wild moment he let himself imagine what it would be like to feel that wicked silver tongue on his shaft, tracing every vein, teasing his slit, dark eyes watching him, issuing an unspoken challenge,  _ daring _ him to give in to temptation… 

How would Machiavelli do it? Would he hold him from behind, jerk him off roughly, impersonally—would he curl up beside him and trail kisses along his throat and shoulder, or maybe cradle Volpe in his lap and make him watch that hand work him into blood-hot, mindless need—a combination of two, maybe?—he wouldn’t mind sitting in Machiavelli’s lap, back to chest, grinding his ass against the other man’s cock while Machiavelli touched him—

“Mm—” Volpe tensed, toes curling, grinding his teeth. He was close—close already, after what seemed like mere moments. He stuck two fingers in his mouth, wetting them sloppily before sliding his hand down to his ass. He penetrated himself roughly, grunting and rocking back into his palm, breath turning harsh as he tightened his grip on his cock. He knew what he wanted—as much as he would delight in Machiavelli’s teasing, he wanted the assassin to  _ have _ him. He wanted Machiavelli to stretch him out across a bed—any bed—and take him, fuck him until they were breathless, until the assassin dropped all pretense and theatre and just let that simple, carnal pleasure sweep him away. He wanted to see that stern brow slicked with sweat and that wicked mouth panted and moaning for him, wanted those cruel lips wet and swollen from kisses, those practiced killer’s hands twined gently with his while they loved the night away. 

“Machiavelli,” he mumbled, and hissed when he found his prostate, stroking it in time with the hand wrapped around his throbbing cock. He hesitated, swept his tongue across his panting lips. He was there,  _ there _ , he just… Oh, God, what he wouldn’t give for just one kiss, just one press of that mouth on his, one taste of the assassin’s lips and tongue…

“Niccolò…” He arched up and grunted, cresting sharply, clenching down around his fingers and ejaculating messily all over his hand. “Mmn—N-Niccolò— _ Niccolò _ …”

It didn’t even have to be a kiss, or a touch—just a look would suffice, just something more than cold derision and calculated teasing, just something,  _ anything _ , that might suggest that Niccolò felt the same, that maybe he entertained these lurid fantasies as well—just that. Just that would do. Volpe could die happy if there was even the slightest chance in Hell that that arrogant piece of shit might want him, too. 

Volpe sighed and withdrew his hand, wincing at the ache between his legs, and dropped his chin onto his chest. He didn’t open his eyes—opening his eyes would mean the end of his fantasy, the end of this happy, torturous little dream. Maybe Niccolò kissed his lovers after taking them to bed—maybe he’d loop an arm around Volpe’s waist and nuzzle into his back, holding him close and doze off with come and sweat still sticking to his skin. Volpe let himself imagine just a little longer—imagine Niccolò’s slow breath against his shoulder, the tickle of the younger man’s short, soft hair against his neck. The way those hands might feel on his skin, lax and gentle. 

When the ache in his heart surpassed that in his ass, Volpe regretfully opened his eyes. He blinked twice to ensure that he was, in fact, seeing what he thought he was seeing. Because he  _ thought _ he was seeing the toes of Machiavelli’s preposterously expensive favorite leather boots, but that wasn’t—

“Ahem.”

Volpe’s blood turned to ice. Slowly—as if in a dream, or a nightmare—he lifted his head. He still had a hand around his softening cock, he was still covered in his own sticky come, and the stone patio was cold against his ass, and he looked up. Machiavelli stood before him, eyebrows raised high, cradling a pigeon between his gloved hands while it cooed happily. 

“Why?” Volpe said weakly.

The assassin cleared his throat. “I was walking by when something startled the pigeons. I thought it might have been a weasel, or—well. Or a fox.” He cracked a grin. “I see I was right, to some extent.” 

Volpe blinked at him. After a moment’s pause, Machiavelli turned away and held his hands out. The pigeon hopped to its feet, pecked at his glove, and then flapped away, heading for the coop on a nearby rooftop. Volpe’s mind surged back to functionality; he hurriedly pulled up his hose, tucking away his manhood and wiping his hands on the inside of his cape just before Machiavelli turned around once more. 

“So.” The assassin scratched at his hair, still smiling that half-amused, half-terrified smile. “You. Ah. You called my name.”

Volpe stayed silent—maybe if he didn’t say anything, or held still enough, the devil would have pity on him and drag him straight to Hell before he had to participate in this conversation. 

“Were you—were you thinking about—about…?”

“I have a lover named Niccolò,” Volpe said stiffly. He hated the way Machiavelli looked down at him, but he felt too shaky to stand. “It’s the most common name in Florence, you know.”

“Then it wasn’t—?”

“You?” Volpe snorted with as much derision as he could muster—which, to his ear, didn’t sound like much—and climbed to his feet, lifting his chin and meeting the assassin’s gaze. “You have an awfully high opinion of yourself. No,  _ Signor _ Machiavelli, I was not pleasuring myself to the thought of  _ you _ . Perhaps you should stifle your curiosity, lest you continue to intrude on that which is intensely personal.”

Machiavelli frowned. “You are aware, of course, that this is an open-air roof garden and not your little rat’s nest of an inn.”

Volpe looked around in feigned surprise. “Oh, my! My mistake. Next time I shall  _ not _ think of you somewhere more private. Good day.” 

He shouldered past the assassin and climbed up on the railing, preparing to make the descent back to the ground below (so he could go hide in a dark room somewhere until his ears stopped burning), but the other man spoke.

“It would have been alright.”

Volpe frowned and glanced back at his companion. “What?”

“It would have been alright,” Machiavelli repeated, and smiled—the smile that Volpe knew, the smile of a man who has power and knows it, who is pleased with it. “Had you been thinking of me.”

Volpe stared back at him—at that knowing smile, at those dark eyes—and then he lunged. He hadn’t meant to, hadn’t planned on it, but he jumped off the railing and threw an arm around the younger man’s shoulders and dragged Machiavelli into a kiss. And Machiavelli kissed him  _ back _ , pushed Volpe’s hood back to tangle a hand into his hair. Volpe swept his tongue along the assassin’s lips and teeth, tasting him—and oh God, Machiavelli tasted  _ better _ than he’d dared to dream—and moaned like a lovestruck virgin when Machiavelli’s tongue met his. They kissed like fools, clumsy and overeager, seeking rhythm and finding none. Volpe lifted his numb hands and  _ touched _ , ran his palms along the firm planes of Machiavelli’s chest and shoulders and back, delighted at finding hard muscle beneath his shapeless coat and tunic. 

Machiavelli drew away, just enough to draw breath, stayed close enough that their noses brushed, that they shared the same air. His lips had pinked, visibly wet from the thief’s attentions, and Volpe’s stomach did a turn.  

The assassin licked his lips—and Volpe had to restrain a moan—before quirking a smile. “Your lover Niccolò won’t be happy.”

“It’s fine. He’s good at sharing.”

“I’m not.”

“Then forget him,” Volpe said, and Machiavelli laughed until the thief silenced him with another bruising kiss. He raked his hands through the younger man’s dark hair—the slip of those raven strands through his fingers alone would have been enough to seduce him, never mind the pressure and heat of honey-sweet lips, never mind the strong hands that settled possessively on his hips, drawing him close as sin.

“So—to be clear—”

“Will you _shut up_ and let me kiss you?”

“—you  _ were _ thinking of me?”

“ _ Yes _ , idiot,” Volpe growled. 

“Oh.” Machiavelli’s cheeks pinked, and Volpe groaned into their next kiss. “I, um—I also—”

“ _ Don’t _ ,” Volpe said quickly, pressing a hand to the assassin’s mouth. “If you say it, you’re taking me home tonight. So don’t say it unless—”

“I also think of you,” Machiavelli interrupted, his voice muffled behind Volpe’s palm. “When I do it.”

Volpe jumped on him—wrapped arms around his shoulders and legs around his waist and kissed him like he was drowning and Machiavelli was air. The assassin stumbled back into the wall, holding up the other man with difficulty while Volpe assaulted his mouth.

“Mm—Vol— _ mmn _ —”

“I warned you,” Volpe growled, tugging the assassin’s lower lip between his teeth. “Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“The nearest unoccupied bed will do.”

“I can’t— _ mmph _ —go anywhere if you keep—”

“You're smart. Figure it out,” Volpe retorted, and kissed him again. 


	46. Tryst II

To anyone passing by who didn’t look closely enough, it may have even looked innocent—not that there was anything particularly innocent about the way Volpe held him, how close they were, pressed together in a corner of the armory— but in passing at least, there would be no outward sign of the fact that Volpe was about to ejaculate in his hose.

It wasn’t the first time they’d done this, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last—holding one another in some dark corner, grinding up against one another’s bodies, cocks straining and trapped in their hose, muffling grunts and moans against throats and shoulders.

“Gilberto,” Niccolò rasped, arms tightening around his shoulders, one hand tangling into his hair. “Oh—I—”

 “Feels good,” Volpe mumbled, squeezing Niccolò’s hips and groaning at a particularly hard press of his cock into his lover’s. “ _Oh._ Nic, that feels so good…”

 Niccolò shuddered and held him closer. Volpe released his hips to brace both hands against the wall on either side of his lover’s shoulders, smothering a moan against the soft skin just below Niccolò’s ear. He flicked his tongue out, tasted the salt of the younger man’s sweat and the heady scent of his cologne.

Somewhere on the other side of the room, a door opened, then closed again with a hurried snap, and Volpe chuckled against the side of Niccolò’s neck.

“Whoops.”

“Never mind,” Niccolò grunted, slipping his arms beneath Volpe’s to curl them around the thief’s strong shoulders. “It’s not as if we’ve done a good job keeping this—ah, ah!—s-secret.”

“Yeah,” Volpe murmured, head fuzzy, running his mouth across Niccolò’s jaw. “I’m gonna— _ungh_ —Nic, I’m gonna come.”

“Please do,” Niccolò said, breath hot and quick in Volpe’s ear, hands mapping out the curves and contours of the thief’s back. Volpe pressed into him, hard, rubbing his clothed erection against Niccolò’s lower belly. “Come for me, love, you’re so hard, you’re so beautiful, you— _ah_ —you feel so good—”

 Volpe circled his hips one last time and climaxed with a choked groan, pressing his mouth to Niccolò’s shoulder and huffing out hard gasps as he spilled in his clothes, pleasure tightening his lower back and thighs, warm and heavy. Niccolò kept whispering in his hear, sweet little endearments and filthy compliments all in the swell of one breath while fingers slipped between them to rub at the wet spot on Volpe’s hose.

 Volpe leaned in and kissed him, savoring the press of soft lips, dropped a hand to squeeze the heavy bulge between his lover’s legs and relishing the way Niccolò sighed into him, hips arching.

 “Love how big you are,” he mumbled, grinning at the shudder that shook Niccolò’s body. “Love slicking up for you and letting you pull me down onto your cock—love how you stretch me out, the sounds you make when you’re fucking me—”

Niccolò gasped sharply, hips juddering upward, and Volpe purred when he felt wetness spread beneath his caressing hand. Unable to resist, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of Niccolò’s hose and tugged them open, resting his head against his lover’s shoulder and moaning at the sight of his blood-red cock spilling come into his smallclothes. Niccolò’s hands wound into his hair and fisted tightly, hips rolling as he rode out the last of his climax, mumbling some strange mix of Latin and Fiorentino into his lover’s scalp.

 Volpe let his hose fall back with a wet _snap_ , grinning at Niccolò’s grunt and leaning into the hands smoothing down his shoulders and arms. Hands entangled loosely with his, and a soft kiss found his mouth.

 “How was it?”

“Delightful,” Niccolò breathed, and Volpe laughed. “Perhaps I underestimated the value of these sordid little trysts.”

“See? A bed’s not the only place for a good fuck.” 

“Indeed. I shall have to broaden my horizons in the future.”

Volpe grinned, angling his head to run his tongue up a bruise he’d left on the side of Niccolò’s neck, thrilled by his lover’s answering whimper. “I think I’d be willing to help with that.”


	47. Ease

Volpe was never _pleased_ when Machiavelli was injured. In fact, he hated it—hated to see skin swollen and red around fresh stitches, hated to see cheeks paled by loss of blood, hated to see Niccolò struggle for breath and stfile moans of pain behind his palm.

 His wound this time was painful but not mortal—a rifleman’s bullet had punched through the side of his leg, clipping bone and then remaining buried deep in his calf. Claudia had cut through the other side to remove the bullet rather than go digging through the wound, and Volpe had kept Niccolò cradled in his arms even after he passed out. Bullet wounds were agony; they kept him doped up on opium for days afterward, pressing a pipe between his lips every time he stirred from thick, hazy sleep. They kept him asleep through the fever that kept his body in its clutches for three days, and for three days Volpe stayed at his bedside, wiping down his brow and face and chest with a cool cloth.

He hated to see Niccolò wounded, _hated_ to see his Niccolò in pain, but the afterward—when the fever finally burned out, when the wound began to knit, when he didn’t need the opium but at night, to help him sleep—that part wasn’t so bad.

He’d been wounded south of the city, so it only made sense for Ezio to carry him to the thieves’ guild to recover. Which meant that, once the fever had broken and the pain had released him from its vice grip, Volpe got to enjoy his lover’s uninterrupted company in his room.

The thieves didn’t question that the assassin was laid up in their leader’s quarters— _Signor_ Machiavelli was important, and his whispering in the right ears at court had given the thieves more freedom from the constant attention of the guards, so he was in their good graces. Only natural that la Volpe himself would personally attend to their ally. No one questioned that Machiavelli stayed in the room all hours of the day—resting his leg, of course—and it seemed only natural that la Volpe would stay with him, keep him company, help him plan and scheme 

Volpe smiled to himself, looking down at the man sleeping beside him, curled up with his head on Volpe’s chest and an arm slung over his waist. Niccolò—so remote and cold when there were watchful eyes around—was nothing but tender and unrestrained in private. It had taken time, of course, and coaxing—Volpe had had to earn his trust, help his young lover understand that gentleness was not the equivalent of weakness—but now, the moment the door closed behind them, Niccolò had no reservations about slipping into his lover’s arms and letting Volpe cuddle and kiss him in bed.

The sun finally peaked enough that its light reached through their window, and Volpe groaned, lifting a hand to shield his eyes. Niccolò mumbled and pressed a little closer, rubbing his cheek against Volpe’s collarbone before settling once more with a soft sigh. Volpe’s stomach growled; no doubt Niccolò would wake hungry as well—considering how _physical_ they’d been last night—but not even hunger was enough to make Volpe want to move, not when he had the man he loved tucked so sweetly against his body, right where Volpe wanted him.

The thief smiled, angling his pinned arm to trail his fingertips lightly through Niccolò’s hair. He hadn’t been among the Signoria in ages, and therefore hadn’t bothered to shear it short against his scalp; it had finally gotten long enough to spill across his brow and begin to curl around his ears and nape, long enough that Volpe could run his hands through it. Volpe let his fingertips wander, tracing the shell of Niccolò’s ear, the edge of his rough jaw. Oh, he loved it when the man didn’t shave, loved to feel the scrape of hair between his thighs, loved how handsome Niccolò looked with a shadow of a beard to highlight the masculine angle of his jaw. Beards were neither stylish nor professional back in Florence, but now that he was a little older, a little surer of himself, and especially without his Signoria colleagues clicking their tongues at him in disapproval, Niccolò had learned to throw propriety to the wind.

“Mm.” Niccolò shifted against him, lips parting to kiss gently across Volpe’s collarbone. “That feels nice.” He tipped his head back, squinting at Volpe in the bright sunlight, a smile perking his mouth. “Good morning.”

Volpe kissed him rather than speaking, savoring the way Niccolò’s lips moved against his, soft and sure. When had it become so easy between them? He knew the rhythm of this kiss just as surely as he knew the rhythm of his own heartbeat, knew precisely when Niccolò would angle his head to deepen it a little, when those lips would part and he would taste just the tip of Niccolò’s tongue against his before the kiss would close again, just lips on lips, noses brushing, the curve of his lover’s smile against his mouth.

“As much as I would love to do nothing but kiss you until the end of time,” Niccolò murmured, tightening his arm around Volpe’s waist, “I am absolutely famished.”

Volpe chuckled, stealing one last quick kiss before sitting up. “I am, as well. What sounds good?”

“Something sweet. Pastries?” Niccolò lolled back against the bed, resting on his side, hair tousled and smile gentle and beautiful while he watched Volpe stand and hunt around for his clothes. “Coffee, if you can find it.”

“Antonio just sent some more.”

“Delightful.”

Volpe tugged on his hose and glanced back, heart jumping at the sight of his lover so relaxed and so open. He eased himself back onto the mattress—probably not the quality they enjoyed in Florence, but Niccolò never complained—and leaned down to kiss the younger man’s brow.

“I love how you look in my bed.”

“I’m glad, because I don’t intend to leave anytime soon.” Niccolò tipped his chin back, inviting Volpe’s mouth to wander along his neck, sighing when Volpe’s clever tongue traced along his pulse. “I wonder—if it pleases you—if you’d suck me off.”

“Happily,” Volpe murmured, because there was little else in the world he loved more than having Niccolò’s pretty cock in his mouth. “But breakfast first. How’s your leg?”

“Better than yesterday,” Niccolò said, giving it an experimental stretch. Volpe placed a hand on the linen bandages, easing it back down toward the bed. “A bit sore.”

“Want to try walking on it later?”

“Yes. The sooner, the better. Although,” he added, sliding a hand through Volpe’s hair, “I have enjoyed being bedridden, having you take care of my every whim.”

“You don’t need to get shot in the leg for me to take care of you,” Volpe chuckled, stroking his thumb over Niccolò’s rough jaw. “But I’ve enjoyed it, as well.”

 Niccolò beamed, tugging Volpe down to kiss him. “I’m glad. I would make myself a permanent fixture in your rooms, if I could.”

 Volpe hesitated, trailing a few gentle touches down Niccolò’s bare abdomen. He loved the soft hair beneath his lover’s navel, the way it grew coarser and curled at the base of his cock. “Niccolò, you… could stay, if you desired. Here, I mean. With me.”

 Niccolò blinked, taken aback. “I—I am needed in the city proper.”

 “I know. But if you wanted to—leave some clothes here, and some books, then you could stay for a few days at a time, on occasion, and…” He dropped his gaze, crawling down the bed to press kisses to Niccolò’s belly. There was a little softness there, atop the firm muscles, that Volpe absolutely loved. “When you’re not in court, or helping Ezio, I would be glad to have you here, with me.” He looked up, offering a cautious smile. “I would like…I _want_ more time with you, love.”

 Niccolò released a long, slow breath, reaching out to stroke Volpe’s cheek, smiling a little when the thief leaned into the touch and kissed his palm. “It would…people would talk.”

 “Let them.” Volpe scraped his teeth along his lover’s wrist, tasted his rapid pulse. “I love you, Niccolò. And I know we can’t—have this forever.” And oh, it hurt to say that, to put words to the terrible truth neither of them wanted to face—they couldn’t stay together as long as either of them wanted, couldn’t grow old in a country villa or walk hand in hand down the street, or dance together when the Signoria threw its ostentatious balls, or kiss where hateful eyes might see. “So let’s have it while we can.”

 Niccolò grasped his hand, tugged on him, and they kissed—a little hungrily this time, Niccolò’s tongue trailing along the roof of his mouth and then across his lips when Volpe parted them in a quiet moan.

“Alright,” Niccolò murmured, taking the thief’s face in his hands. “I’ll stay. I can’t promise how often I’ll come round, but—I’ll stay. I’m yours, Gilberto, for as long as you’ll have me.” And then he grinned, mouth quirking upward against Volpe’s slow kiss. “On one condition.”

Volpe drew back and arched a brow. “And that is?”

 “You put my cock in your mouth _before_ you go get breakfast.”

 Volpe rolled his eyes and kissed him once more. “My beloved’s wish is my command.”

Niccolò laughed, kissing across his cheek and mouth and jaw before pushing down lightly on his head, and Volpe snorted even as he ran his lips down Niccolò’s chest, stomach, smiling when the man he loved arched up into his mouth.


	48. Ghosts II

La Volpe—who loved little more than he loved his sleep—awoke with a grunt when an elbow dug into his ribs and a heel jerked back to collide sharply with his shin.

“ _Ow_ ,” he groaned, shifting his arm and wincing at the pins and needles as sensation rushed back. He pressed a little closer to the man nestled against his front, rubbing his face against Niccolò’s bare shoulder and yawning. Bleary morning light filtered in through the window, and the birds had begun their sweet chorus, but Niccolò’s body was pliant and warm against his. He wasn’t ready to rise. “Nic. You’re kicking me.”

Niccolò twitched; he was mumbling, and when Volpe focused, he could just make out the softest murmurs of Latin. Niccolò kicked again, and Volpe grunted.

“ _Nic_ ,” he said, loudly, and prodded his lover between his shoulders. “Wake up, love.”

A groan—and then Niccolò jerked, one arm flailing. Volpe caught it and pinned him back down against the bed, easing more of his weight against Niccolò’s back and pressing kisses beneath his ear.

“Hey,” he murmured, a little shiver rolling down his spine when Niccolò whimpered quietly beneath him. “Hey. _Tesoro_. You’re dreaming.” 

When the younger man didn’t respond save for another mumbled plea in Latin, Volpe reached down between them and gave his arse a sharp pinch. Niccolò woke with a snort, struggling against the hand pinning his wrist to the bed before he recognized the mouth trailing softly along his shoulder.

“I—mn—Gilberto?”

“Morning.” Volpe relaxed his grip, withdrawing his arm to wrap it around Niccolò’s waist instead, tugging him closer and nestling into the curve of his body. “You kick when you dream.”

“…I do not.”

“I have the bruises to prove it.” 

Niccolò huffed, but the touch he trailed along the hand resting upon his stomach was anything but harsh. “I’m sorry.”

“Shh. It’s fine.” Volpe closed his eyes, pressing his face into the back of Niccolò’s neck and dropping soft kisses against his skin. He felt the tension draining from Nic’s body, felt his lover ease back against him with a low sigh. “What were you dreaming about?”

“It was—nothing.”

“You were speaking Latin. You only do that when you’re upset.”

Niccolò hummed, trailing gentle fingertips across Volpe’s knuckles. “You think you know me so well.”

“I do know you so well.” Volpe smiled, slipping his hand beneath Niccolò’s sleeping shirt to thumb softly at the hair beneath his navel. “Because I love you.”

After a moment, Niccolò rolled over, settling back down so close their noses nearly brushed. “You really do, don’t you."

“Mm?”

“Love me.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. Tremendously. Deeply.” He smiled easily, brushing his fingertips along the proud line of Niccolò’s jaw and cupping his chin. “So much it leaves me breathless.”

“…Even though I kick in my sleep? And speak languages you don’t understand.”

“Especially for those things,” Volpe murmured, and chuckled when Niccolò pressed close to kiss him. He rolled onto his back, tugging Niccolò along with him, sliding a hand into his lover’s smallclothes. “Was it a nightmare?”

“Yes,” Niccolò mumbled against his mouth, reaching down between them, his hand joining Volpe’s. His sigh turned into a rough grunt. “Yes, it was.”

“What was it about?” 

“I’d—rather not say.” They kissed again, slow and soft, a quiet moan lost between wandering lips. “Oh—Gilberto. Please touch me.”

“Of course.” Volpe curled a hand through the cropped hair at Niccolò’s nape, pulling him close. “I’m right here, beloved. I’m right here.”

Niccolò moaned for him, burying his face into Volpe’s neck. The thief thought, perhaps, that he knew the contents of the nightmare—wondered if it was the same foul thing that haunted his own sleeping hours, even with Niccolò cradled so close.

But he didn’t ask again.


	49. Care

It was very much like Niccolò to drink. It was as much a Niccolò thing as it was a Florentine thing. Volpe—who liked wine but couldn’t hold his drink, at _all_ —was happy to trot along at his lover’s heels for the evening, trying to match his alcohol consumption with water and bread when given the opportunity (which wasn’t often). He watched Niccolò Machiavelli come gently unwound, watched his masks and walls slip away, watched his smile—normally something chiseled from stone—ease into something warm and genuine. Oh, but he loved that smile. He’d give anything to see it a little more often, but it was a gift for either early morning hours in between soft kisses, or for late nights with a glass of wine in hand.

Ezio, too, delighted in seeing their friend so at ease. He and Machiavelli made their rounds around the thieves’ guild arm in arm, sharing a bottle of wine, bumping shoulders and laughing. They joked with the thieves, gambled, sang badly, even crooned an old Florentine love song for a blushing, giggling recruit. And Volpe just followed them from one happy misadventure to the next, watching Niccolò’s back.

He waited until—oh, fuck all, he wasn’t about to check the time—but it was late when Niccolò tried to get out his chair and wobbled noticeably, throwing out an arm to catch Ezio, which proved about as effective as not having grabbed anything at all, for Ezio was swaying as well, both of them pitching around like a skiff in a storm.

“Alright,” Volpe chuckled, closing the meager distance between them and slipping an arm around Niccolò’s waist, “let’s get you to bed, _tesoro_.”

“M’not tired.” 

“I know, I know. Why not rest awhile, until you can stand again. Then you can come back and enjoy yourself.” A nonsense proposition, of course—once Niccolò fell asleep, he would sleep on till late afternoon, at least, and probably curse himself and Ezio Auditore and his headache with every colorful word in his extensive vocabulary upon waking.

But for now, he seemed content to let Volpe lead him away from the party—what were they celebrating, Volpe wondered, not that it mattered—and upstairs to the master thief’s quarters.

“Gilberto,” Niccolò mumbled, digging in his heels, and swayed unsteadily when Volpe loosened his grip to unlock his door. “Mn. _Gil._ ”

“Yes, love,” Volpe said, patient, and released a muffled little grunt of surprise when Niccolò crowded him against the door and pressed a deliciously messy kiss to his mouth. For a moment—just one, he _swore_ —he lost himself in it, in the taste of rich red wine on Niccolò’s tongue, lost himself to the hands that tangled in his hair and then moved down to grip his ass. Niccolò had gotten tall over the last three years, and broad, suddenly sprouted like a weed just when Volpe had started to think that teasing him about his slight stature was never going to get old. 

Volpe got a hold of himself, breaking a hot kiss and shaking his head, easing Niccolò’s hands from his ass and shaking his head with an indulgent smile when Niccolò whined and tried to meet his lips again.

“Not tonight, _tesoro_.”

“Why not?” And wasn’t that cute, that little pout on Niccolò’s face, so uncharacteristic of a man who only needed a small smile to make Italy kneel at his feet. _Pouting_ because his one great love wouldn’t indulge him. Volpe wondered, and not for the first time, whether he was the first man on the planet to tell Machiavelli 'no,' whether that little fact had been what inspired Niccolò to chase him so fiercely in the beginning. “I want you, Gil. Don’t you want me?”

“Oh, love,” Volpe murmured, caressing his face, “you’re so beautiful. Of course I want you. I want you every moment of every day.” He took Niccolò’s face in his hands as he said it, pressed soft little kisses to his brow and nose, and finally a chaste one against his lips, drawing back deliberately when Niccolò opened his mouth. “Come. Bed.”

“Yes, _please_.”

Volpe chuckled, letting Niccolò lean into his back and wrap arms around his waist while he opened the door. He stepped into the room, Niccolò shuffling along behind him, groaning when he was gently detached so Volpe could close and bolt the door.

“Bed, bed,” Volpe said, urging Niccolò toward the lumpy mattress with a pat to his pert little ass. Niccolò, to his credit, went—and flopped face-down onto the coverlet with a long groan.

“I lied,” he slurred softly, trying to wriggle out of his boots and failing miserably. “M’tired.”

“I know,” Volpe murmured, and joined him on the bed, coaxing him onto his back. He began to undo the buckles of Niccolò’s coat, helping him sit up to slide the heavy covering down his shoulders. He wasn’t surprised when Niccolò took the opportunity to lunge forward and drag him down for another kiss, heated and yearning, and Volpe permitted it only long enough to toss the coat aside and work on his belt.

“Please?” A whisper against his mouth, and then a whine when Volpe pushed Niccolò onto his back and pulled the belt out from beneath him. “ _Please_ , Gil.”

“You’ve had too much to drink, my beloved, my own one,” Volpe said, and offered his lover his absolute sweetest smile. “Ask me again in the morning.”

Niccolò scowled and dropped his head back against the mattress. Volpe grinned more widely and unknotted the younger man’s hose, working them down to his knees before pausing to pull away the boots. He was more than used to the silent treatment, more than used to having to coax his sulking lover back to sweetness.

“Hey,” he said softly, leaning down to nuzzle his nose against Niccolò’s and run a hand over his close-cropped hair, “get into bed for me.” 

Groaning, Niccolò did as asked, moving sluggishly and wriggling beneath the blankets while Volpe stood and disrobed. He saw the flash of interest in Niccolò’s eyes, and the irritable furrow of his brow when Volpe climbed back into bed with his tunic and smallclothes on.

“Never thought you’d turn down a chance to fuck,” Niccolò mumbled, and scooted over obligingly so Volpe could slip in beside him.

“I only fuck people who will remember it come morning,” Volpe replied, nestling in close and reaching over his lover’s body to pat his arse. “Turn over, let me hold you.”

The politician huffed, grumbled, whined, but then he did indeed roll over, let Volpe curl in behind him and slip an arm around his waist, tug him in close. 

“Mm.” Volpe pressed his face into Niccolò’s hair, breathing deeply, enjoying the warmth emanating from his body. “There. That’s better, hm?”

“Yes. What’d be even _better_ is your cock up m'arse.”

Volpe laughed, long and hard, curling around Niccolò’s pliant body and pressing his mouth to the soft skin beneath his ear, over and over again, until Niccolò relaxed against him with a soft little sigh.

“You brat,” Volpe said, softly now, smiling into Niccolò’s nape. “I love you. You’re a tremendous pain in the ass, and I love you.”

“Love you, too,” Niccolò mumbled, and heaved a great yawn. Volpe cherished him in these moments, absolutely adored him, when he was so quiet and so unguarded. “Even when y’won’t fuck me.” 

“Hush,” Volpe said, and kissed him, again, again, and again, over every inch of Niccolò’s skin he could find, as gently as he could. “Sleep, _tesoro_. I promise I’ll indulge your every desire come morning.”

“Lucky me,” Niccolò sighed, and not a minute later, began to snore softly. He would drool on the pillow and turn it over immediately upon waking, would lie there with blushing cheeks while Volpe laughed at him and tried to tickle his sides. 

Volpe smiled and closed his eyes, listened to the party roaring downstairs and the soft sounds of Niccolò at rest. His Niccolò. He nestled closer yet—impossible, and yet somehow he could always get closer—and kissed back and forth across Niccolò’s nape until sleep took him, too.

And come morning—rather, by late afternoon—Niccolò would finally wake with a groan, burying himself beneath pillows to avoid the light from the window, and whine about the pain in his head, and the complaining would only abate when Volpe would climb back into bed with him and slip a hand between his legs. And cautiously would Niccolò emerge from his hiding place, lips parted and eyes softly heated with want, and pull Volpe down against his body and kiss him with desperation that wouldn’t manage to wane even through the night. And if they were to murmur words of love between deep kisses, if Volpe were to pin Niccolò’s hands above his head and worship every inch of him—well, who but they would know?

Later, though. Later. Now, Volpe held his beloved close, and slept.


	50. Text

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Nic is trying to work and Gil is being a little shit. Modern.

> **Beautiful Idiot Fiancé**
> 
> Hey Nic
> 
> Nic
> 
> Niiiiiiiiiicccccc
> 
> Answer your phone
> 
> Nic
> 
> Wanna play a game with me?
> 
> Nic pick up your phone
> 
> I know you’re receiving these
> 
> Nic I’m bored
> 
> NNNNNNNNNNNNN
> 
> IIIIIIIIIIII
> 
> CCCCCCOOOLLLÒ
> 
> Baby please?
> 
> I know you’re writing but you’ve been at it for hours, take a break
> 
> How do I make the gif keyboard thing work?
> 
> Uhhhh
> 
> It made my phone crash
> 
> Mother ducking
> 
> *fucking
> 
> ducking autocorrect
> 
> FUCK
> 
> Have you been on your tumblr today
> 
> Check your tumblr I tagged you in four things
> 
> Why don’t you ever get on tumblr
> 
> FUCKING ENTERTAIN ME
> 
> What do you want for dinner
> 
> Baby
> 
> Food, do you want it
> 
> Respond now or I’m just gonna get pizza
> 
> Thai, please.
> 
> OH HE SPEAKS
> 
> What are you working on?
> 
> Seriously
> 
> You care more about food than you do about maintaining our relationship
> 
> Okay
> 
> That’s cool
> 
> I see how it is
> 
> It’s on the way
> 
> My tattoo hurts??? Where’s the lotion
> 
> Oh nvm found it
> 
> Why are we out of lotion
> 
> How much do you masturbate???
> 
> Hey can I have a blowjob real quick
> 
> I can see that these are being received, why are you looking but not bothering to text back
> 
> What chapter are you working on?
> 
> Do you want to play mortal kombat
> 
> I’m gonna sign you in
> 
> Come down in five minutes or I’m going to play without you
> 
> You can be sub zero
> 
> What’s your live password?
> 
> Nvm I’ll use ezios
> 
> Fiiiggghhhtttt
> 
> I’m kicking your ass
> 
> I want to unlock the rest of the lizard guys finishing moves, how do I do that
> 
> Nic
> 
> How do I unlock more moves
> 
> NIIIICCCCC
> 
> This is important
> 
> So where did we land on that blowjob
> 
> The food’s here
> 
> No, it’s not.
> 
> How do you know??
> 
> I didn’t hear a car pull in.
> 
> The delivery guy was on a bike
> 
> The nearest Thai restaurant that delivers is five miles away.
> 
> You’re five miles away
> 
> And their delivery person is a girl.
> 
> YOU'RE A GIRL
> 
> That comes as a surprise to me.
> 
> Come play mortal kombat
> 
> I’m working.
> 
> UUUGGGGGHHHHHH
> 
> Seriously bj?
> 
> Please?
> 
> Don’t think I wont start jacking off by myself if I have to
> 
> And then I’ll answer the door with a boner
> 
> Why are you ignoring me again
> 
> NIC
> 
> NICCOLÒ
> 
> Uggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhh
> 
> How do I do emojis
> 
> Oh there’s a button?
> 
> :(
> 
> sad face
> 
> :‘(
> 
> crying sad face
> 
> OH MY GOD
> 
> NIC CHECK YOUR TUMBLR
> 
> HAVE YOU SEEN THE VINE WITH THE DOG
> 
> All six thousand of them?
> 
> This one has a frog in it too
> 
> We should get a dog
> 
> Why don’t we have pets?
> 
> I’m allergic
> 
> You’re allergic
> 
> ?? yes
> 
> What chapter are you on?
> 
> Forty-seven.
> 
> Your book is too long
> 
> Okay I know the bj is a no go but can I have a kiss
> 
> Please
> 
> I miss you
> 
> I am twelve feet exactly above your head.
> 
> You’ve been writing all day
> 
> So I’m looking at this wedding catalog Margherita gave us
> 
> Will you wear a tux?
> 
> Can I wear a dress?
> 
> You can wear whatever you want.
> 
> Seriously?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> You’d marry a man in a dress
> 
> I’d marry you in a dress
> 
> Aw
> 
> Will you wear a dress too
> 
> No.
> 
> Balls
> 
>  
> 
> I’m coming down
> 
> ?? The food isn’t here yet
> 
> I know
> 
> Aw, you just miss me? ;)
> 
> Haha. Yes.


	51. Enough

 

La Volpe loved waking up to another man in his bed. One man, in particular. He trailed his fingertips lightly up and down the gentle curve of his lover’s spine, pausing at the highest point to scratch lightly at sleep-mussed tufts of raven hair.

 

“Niccolò,” he murmured, nosing at the side of the younger man’s head and chuckling at the grunt he got in return. “You awake?”

 

“…No.”

 

Volpe smiled and nipped gently at Niccolò’s ear. “Good morning, love.”

 

“ _No_.”

 

The thief leaned down and kissed the assassin’s shoulder, slipping his hand down Niccolò’s back and over the curve of his ass. Niccolò didn’t move, but Volpe didn’t miss the soft hitch in his breath, the way his hips arched almost imperceptibly into the touch.

 

“Sensitive,” he murmured, nuzzling a little closer.

 

“You did put me over your knee last night,” Niccolò said.

 

“You’re fine.” Volpe cupped his ass and gave it a squeeze, chuckling when Niccolò growled at him. “You didn’t even bruise.”

 

“Well, I should hope not. I have work to do today.”

 

Volpe smiled against his lover’s shoulder, easing a finger down between his cheeks and brushing it along Niccolò’s slick hole. “Mm. Nice and loose for me, tesoro. Want something to remember me by?”

 

“You mean besides your come on my insides?” Niccolò snorted, turning his head the other way against the pillow. “Alright.”

 

“ _Alright_ , he says,” Volpe huffed, and slid two fingers into the younger man’s body. Niccolò arched up with a low gasp, fingers digging into the sheets and pulling them taut. Volpe whispered nonsense against his skin until the assassin relaxed again, settling back into the bed with a soft groan as strong fingers worked inside him.

 

“Gilberto.” Little more than a murmur, a glance over his shoulder, lips parted and cheeks flushed. “Please.”

 

Volpe leaned in and cupped his other hand around Niccolò’s jaw, tilting his head back for a messy kiss while his fingers slipped in deeper, memory guiding his fingertips until Niccolò pressed into him with a throaty moan.

 

“There you go,” he breathed, nuzzling their noses together before easing Niccolò back down again, letting him bury his face into the nearest pillow. “Let me take care of you, _caro._ You want three?”

 

“Mm. No.” Niccolò sighed, spreading his legs a little more and swallowing a gasp when Volpe’s fingers pressed down against his prostate. “This is enough… _oh_ …”

 

“There?”

 

“ _There_.”

 

Volpe smiled, circling around Niccolò’s walls in a slow tease before rubbing into that sweet spot again, wrenching a breathless cry from his lover’s mouth. “I want you to come on my fingers.”

 

“H-Harder.”

 

Volpe obliged him, his smile easy and soft while Niccolò writhed in his bed, overstimulated and oversensitive, biting on his lower lip to hold back whimpers.

 

“Can I hear you?” Volpe murmured, and just the inquiry coaxed a shuddering gasp from Niccolò’s mouth. The thief lifted his free hand and ran it over Niccolò’s tousled hair, humming when Niccolò glanced back at him. “You’re safe here, tesoro.”

 

The younger man’s gaze softened. He opened his mouth and moaned, long and loud, body tightening around Volpe’s fingers through a few swift thrusts before Volpe eased off, returning to his gentle massage. With a soft crooned noise to soothe away Niccolò’s groan, Volpe withdrew his fingers, tapping his index finger against his thumb and smiling at the mess that spread in thin tendrils between his fingertips. Niccolò shivered beneath the caressing hand in his hair, pupils dilated, watching the thief with rapt attention.

 

“I love your body,” Volpe breathed, returning his fingers, and Niccolò groaned, writhing back against him. “So tight. Keeping my come inside you all night.” He grinned, leaning down to trail kisses up Niccolò’s spine, ending with a wet bite just beneath his ear. “Such a good boy.”

 

“Fuck,” Niccolò breathed, and pushed himself up on his elbows to accept the kiss Volpe pressed to his mouth.

 

Volpe closed his eyes, let himself taste, feel—groaned at the sensation of Niccolò’s tongue against his, at that lithe body tightening down around his fingers, the sharp gasp against his lips as Niccolò tensed. Volpe slid a hand beneath his lover’s body, smoothed his fingertips over the head of Niccolò’s cock as he spilled wet heat across the mattress. Niccolò moaned through it, rubbing his face against the pillow, rolling his hips to find friction for his pulsing cock with Volpe’s hands restraining him.

 

“Shh,” Volpe soothed, withdrawing his hand and pinning Niccolò to the bed, running kisses across his sweaty shoulders. “Shh, tesoro. Beautiful, that was beautiful. Rest for me, love.”

 

Niccolò groaned, stirring, cracking an eye open to look back at Volpe. “Do you want…”

 

“No.” Volpe smiled, leant down to kiss Niccolò’s hair. “I just wanted you to come.”

 

The assassin lifted an imperious eyebrow, the softest hint of a smile playing around his mouth. “You’re an enigma, Gilberto.”

 

“I’m in love,” Volpe murmured, chuckling, lowering himself back into the bed and resting an arm across Niccolò’s shoulders.

 

“An enigma,” Niccolò reiterated, and Volpe only laughed, leaning in close to kiss him.


	52. Wring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe someday these drabbles will have plot, focus, and clarity of ideas
> 
> but that day is not today.

 

Volpe stuck his tongue in his cheek. Searched. Searched. Found—and Niccolò arched for him, gasping roughly, pushing back against Volpe’s finger inside his body.

“Oh—fuck—”

“Good,” Volpe crooned, smoothing his other hand down Niccolò’s sweat-slicked back, relishing the way that tight body clenched down on him. “Good, love. Move for me, that’s it.”

Niccolò huffed out a breath, pressing his face into the nearest pillow and using it to muffle a moan. Volpe’s fingers circled his prostate and pressed down, and Niccolò saw white.

“How is it that no one has ever done this for you?” Volpe murmured, withdrawing his hand briefly to hitch Niccolò a little closer, pulling the younger man’s ass into his lap. Niccolò squirmed at being manhandled, and shuddered when Volpe’s sure, steady fingers fucked back into him. “I wish you had told me earlier. I should have spent hours taking you apart like this.”

“Am I going to—” Niccolò paused, breathing through another hot wave that radiated up his core. This was entirely different from having his cock touched, different even than letting Volpe fuck him. He felt full and oversensitive, craving an end and craving more all at once. “ _Ungh._ Is it going to make me…?” 

“You’ll come,” Volpe said, his voice low and rough, and Niccolò failed to stifle his moan. He spread his legs a little further and stuttered out a sharp gasp when three fingers eased into him, stretching him wide. “You’ll come for me, and then you’ll come again.”

“Oh?” Niccolò laughed breathlessly, pushing himself up onto his elbows to grin over his shoulder at his older lover. “How’s that?”

“Because,” Volpe said, and gave his fingers a twist, pressing down on Niccolò’s prostate until the assassin _writhed_ , “when I make you come like this, your cock is going to stay hard. You’re going to _ache_ for it. And I’m going to keep fucking you like this, keep wringing you out, until you can’t _take_ anymore.”

“Fuck,” Niccolò breathed, lowering himself back into the pillows and lifting his hips. Volpe’s fingers twisted and the assassin gasped, all but forgetting how to speak.

 


	53. Interruption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today was terrible. I meant to write something that would help me sort through my feelings over the violence in Orlando, and I'm just... not there yet. Have some fluffy gay Italians in love nonsense in the meanwhile.

“Oh—oh, _fuck_. Tesoro. Your _mouth_ …”

Niccolò lifted his head and laughed, nuzzling his nose against the underside of Volpe’s swollen cock. “You want to?”

“Aren’t I already?” Volpe asked loftily, taking himself in hand and guiding the head back to Niccolò’s lips. The assassin opened up readily, brow furrowing, and grunted softly as the full weight of his lover’s cock settled on his tongue.

Volpe blew out a breath, tipping his head back and smiling up at the sky overhead. A light breeze ruffled his cape.

“This was a good idea,” he murmured, scratching Niccolò’s hair and tucking his other arm behind his head. They were hidden away behind a rooftop garden, facing the massive Duomo while the city wiled away a warm afternoon below.

Niccolò came up for air, pressing heady kisses to the thief’s stomach, licking away the pre-come already smeared across his skin. “All of my ideas are good.”

“Of course, love.” Volpe smiled and tilted the younger man’s chin up, chuckling. “Look at you. Fuck.”

Niccolò grinned at him, swiping his tongue across his lips before ducking down and taking Volpe back into his mouth. The thief groaned, tipping his head back and lifting his hips into his lover’s hands, letting Niccolò guide him. The man’s mouth was a delight, hot and wet and—fuck, the way his tongue curled and laved around the tip of Volpe’s prick every time he came up, flattened it back out around the bottom of the shaft as he pushed back down, a little deeper, slower, each time—

“ _Fuck_ ,” Volpe groaned, shifting and moaning aloud when Niccolò’s hands tightened and pinned his hips. “Oh, tesoro, that feels—”

“Ehi—who’s up here?”

Volpe froze, tightening a hand in the back of Niccolò’s coat, and looked down at his lover. Niccolò had gone still as well, staring back up at Volpe, his mouth still on the thief’s cock—and that was almost, _almost_ , funny enough to make Volpe laugh, but he was far more concerned about the footsteps approaching them rapidly from behind. 

They scrambled—hose undone, scooping up belts from around their ankles, and Volpe stumbled backwards into the enclosed rooftop hutch with Niccolò falling in after him. They landed in a heap and lay still, a tangle of limbs and disheveled clothing, and held their breath as the guard approached.

“Who the hell…”

Niccolò’s face was pressed into the side of Volpe’s neck; the thief felt a grin against his skin. He also felt the hand that slid down his torso, scratching lightly at his belly, before wrapping around his cock and giving him a quick, firm stroke. Volpe tugged hard on the younger man’s ear, a chastisement, but even so he felt himself returning to full hardness in Niccolò’s hand.

A moment, breathless—and then the guard, grumbling to himself, moved on, his footsteps growing fainter. Only when he was several moments gone did Niccolò begin to laugh, smothering his voice against Volpe’s shoulder.

“Your face,” Volpe said, almost in a wheeze, laughing and pulling the assassin in close. Christ, it felt so good to hold him—almost better than fucking him. Almost. “Still sucking me off, and…”

“Oh, shut up,” Niccolò chuckled, slapping his fingertips none too gently against Volpe’s balls before returning to stroking him leisurely. His saliva nearly dried, he used the pre-come leaking from the blood-hot head to ease the way, humming and propping himself up to watch Volpe’s cock slip in and out of his fist. “You want my mouth again?”

“No. This is fine.” Volpe reached for him, cupping a hand to Niccolò’s jaw and pulling him close, foreheads touching, noses brushing, little more than a breath between them. “Kiss me.” 

More than that on mouth on his cock, than the hand that stroked him, he wanted this—Niccolò’s lips pressed against his, the taste of his smile, the loving dart of his tongue against Volpe’s teeth before he retreated, made the thief give chase. Volpe hummed into the kiss. When he came, he came in waves, riding crests of heat that started between his legs and burned through his blood.

The conflagration came to a halt at last in his chest, warmed the space behind his ribs, and lit him up on the inside when Niccolò drew back and offered him that smile.

“Would you like to return the favor?”

Volpe grinned—lunged up, caught the younger man in his arms, pressed him onto his back while Niccolò laughed and helped the thief pull down his hose. Volpe bent down to kiss him again, savored his taste, his breath, his heat.

“I would,” he murmured, and kissed his way down Niccolò’s chest, lingering only a moment longer than usual over his heart.


	54. Toy III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Lately I'm worried that I may have younger readers, so--if you're under eighteen, my official position is that this content is not meant for you. It is intended for readers who are eighteen and older.)

 

“Holy shit,” Gil said. Lowly. Stunned.

Nic grinned sideways at him, arms folded across his chest. “How did I do?”

 “Good, tesoro.” Gil stepped toward the bed, head shaking back and forth—surprised, Nic assumed. “Holy _shit_.” He ran his fingertips over the black rope displayed on their bedsheets, paused to touch the cock gag lying within the coil. He turned, eyebrows arched. “You sure you want to try this?” 

Nic smiled, and it made Gil’s heart skip a beat. His boyfriend looked professional, put together—clean-shaven, hair neatly trimmed, his shirt buttoned and tucked into his slacks, belted tight around his narrow hips. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who’d ask for this.

“I think it’ll be fun,” Nic said, his grin widening, and Gil swallowed.

It took some time, and a few somewhat scandalous websites, but they managed—undressed each other first, slowly, kissing, caressing. Nic left his slacks on, the belt undone, because Gil liked to watch him get hard in his pants. Gil propped him up against the headboard and tied him up, carefully as possible, binding his wrists behind his back before winding the rope around his arms and torso. 

Nic dressed up for work, or Nic dressed down in Gil’s sweatpants and Gil’s ratty t-shirts, was beautiful.

Nic trussed up in ropes for Gil to play with was _fucking gorgeous._

“Shit,” Nic grunted, struggling briefly, eyebrows raised. “Tight.”

“Too much?” 

“No. Should be fine.” Nic tipped his chin toward the other toy on the bed. “Bring that over here, would you?” 

Gil frowned, picking up the gag and measuring it between his fingers. Pretty small—smaller than his cock, certainly, which Nic took with no problem, but it was still big to have in one's throat for an extended period of time. 

“If you can’t talk, how am I gonna know if you need to stop?”

“I’ll kick you in the head,” Nic said, very seriously, and grinned when Gil scowled at him. “I’ll hum Vivaldi’s _Four Seasons_.”

“You could choose something less cultured,” Gil sighed, and drew his boyfriend close, kissing him long and slow, savoring the intimacy. Feeling him get heated and wanton against the ropes that rubbed against his skin.

The gag fit easily into Nic’s mouth. Gil buckled it behind his head and drew back, measuring the stretch of Nic’s jaw, the look in his eyes, which was—fuck. Deep and searching and so clouded with lust that Gil’s cock jumped against his briefs. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, running a thumb along Nic’s lower lip, watched his boyfriend’s eyes drift closed. “You look incredible.” 

Nic hummed back at him. Gil pushed him back onto the bed, gazed at him strewn across their pillows, trussed up and gagged for Gil’s pleasure. Nic’s eyes settled on him, bright, stormy, and something like a smile played around his face even without the use of his mouth. He shifted against the pillows, muscles tightening and relaxing beneath the black rope, and Gil groaned when those slender hips arched and rolled.

“Incredible,” he repeated hoarsely, and covered Nic’s body with his.


	55. Anniversary

“…Oh.” Niccolò paused, one boot half-untied, and swiveled around to look at the man strewn across the bed behind him. “It’s been a year.”

“Mm?” Volpe mumbled back, face pressed into the pillows, still naked as the day he was born. 

Niccolò snorted and slapped his ass, and the thief came up to his elbows with a yelp. “It’s been a year since we first went to bed together.” 

“Oh?” Volpe sat up, rubbing the heel of one hand against his eyes, stifling a yawn. “Are you sure?”

“It was the end of August. I remember…” Niccolò leaned in, pulling Volpe’s hand down and pressing a quick kiss to his mouth, “because it was so damn hot outside, even by nightfall.” 

Volpe considered, turning his mind through a year’s worth of memories while Niccolò turned away to lace up his boot. “The color of your cheeks,” he said at length, and Niccolò smiled back at him. “I remember how red you went in the face.”

Niccolò’s grin widened, and he leaned back on his elbows against Volpe’s legs. “What else do you remember?”

“The way you sounded,” Volpe said at once, a little breathless, and leaned down to brush his mouth along Niccolò’s brow. “How quietly you moaned for me. And how tightly you held on to me. And how big your cock felt, pushing inside me the first time…”

Niccolò’s mouth found his, drawing him in for a deep kiss, groaning when Volpe leaned forward and pushed him into the bed, sliding a hand beneath his shirt.

“I just dressed,” Niccolò mumbled.

Volpe claimed his mouth again, quick, hungry kisses that plumped Niccolò’s lips against his. “You can dress yourself again.”

Niccolò huffed, but he was grinning, and didn’t resist when Volpe made quick work of the laces of his hose.


	56. Endless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm writing about sex a lot, okay? Let me live

“If I had known it would be like this, I would have tried to bed you _years_ ago.”

Niccolò rasped out a laugh beside him, still gasping to catch his breath, and tilted his head against the soaked pillows to grin at Volpe. His eyes were bright and wild, his cheeks flushed, sweat clinging to the fine strands of his raven hair. 

“Luckily, we have time yet to make up for your hesitance.” 

Volpe snorted and wrapped a hand around the younger man’s neck, tugging him close and groaning into the searing kiss Niccolò pressed to his mouth, arching his hips up. He was only half hard, and the slide of his cock against his lover’s sent a jolt down his spine that curled his toes.

“Ooh—Nic—”

“Sensitive?” Niccolò murmured, his mouth trailing along Volpe’s jaw. He splayed his hands on either side of the thief’s head and rocked his hips, gentle, grinning into a fierce kiss when Volpe gasped against his mouth. “Gilberto. I want you.” 

“Again?” Volpe groaned, but he was already spreading his thighs, letting Niccolò settle in against his body. He felt down the younger man’s abdomen, sticky with sweat and spend, and slipped fingertips around the leaking head of Niccolò’s erection. He began to stroke him lazily. “How long have we been at this?”

Niccolò stopped sucking bruises into Volpe’s throat long enough to glance at the water clock. He checked it against the position of the sun outside the open window and quirked a brow. “Three—four hours?”

“ _Four_ —” Volpe burst into laughter, thighs pressing snug around Niccolò’s hips and pulling him in close. “Fuck. Come here.”

“More, then?”

“More,” Volpe murmured, kissing him, trailing his hands up and down the strong arms keeping the younger man braced above him. “I want your cock.”

“Mm. Fuck.”

“In me, if you please.”

“Yes, I got that,” Niccolò snorted, even as he hooked a hand around Volpe’s thigh and opened him up, pressing the head of his cock against the thief’s hole. “Where’s the oil?”

“It’s—” Volpe fumbled one hand across the sheets until he located the bottle—and froze. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“We’re out.”

Niccolò’s head snapped up, his mouth falling open. “We’re _what?_ ”

“Out,” Volpe repeated, wincing, tipping the bottle upside down to demonstrate. A few sad drops plopped out. They watched each one hit the sheets and seep in, joining the myriad stains.

“…Go ask Ezio.”

“Fuck that! _You_ go ask Ezio!”

“I’m not asking my mentor if he has oil so we can fuck!” 

“You don’t have to tell him what it’s for!”

“You think he won’t guess?”

Volpe groaned, covering his face in both hands. “ _Dammit_.”

“I mean,” Niccolò groused, trailing a fingertip through the mess smeared on Volpe’s stomach, “we’ve probably had enough.”

Volpe lifted one hand and arched a brow at him. “Have we, though?”

Niccolò bit his lower lip, looking down at the intimate tangle of their bodies, rocking his hips a little to rub his cock against the innermost crease of Volpe’s thigh. “Shit,” he said at length, and threw himself off the bed, searching around for his clothes. “Alright, alright, _fine_ —just help me come up with a good cover story.”


	57. Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the winter of 1502, Cesare Borgia, Niccolò Machiavelli, and Leonardo da Vinci all wound up in Imola as Borgia marched his armies north on his never-ending quest to conquer the Romagna-Marches states. Cesare schemed, Leonardo drew maps, and Niccolò worked so hard and stressed so much that he got sick for two weeks and couldn't even leave his bed. The historical record indicates that Leonardo was probably the one who looked after him during this time.

_Gilberto…did you know? During the winter, it snows in Imola._

 

* * *

 

“…Hm. I wonder how long it will keep falling.”

Niccolò Machiavelli forced his eyes open, fighting against the dull throbbing in his skull, and tilted his head against the pillow. Leonardo da Vinci leaned against the window, arms crossed over the sill, watching soft white powder fall upon the city. The artist glanced back at him, offered him a smile.

“Would you like me to close the window?”

“No…” Niccolò closed his eyes again. The fresh air stirred the cobwebs in his lungs, made his breath rattle less. Leonardo padded across the room and touched his knuckles to his friend’s brow.

“I should send for a doctor.”

“Don’t. It will pass.”

“It’s been a week,” Leonardo retorted, drawing up an armchair and stifling a yawn.

Niccolò smiled wearily, cracking an eye open. “I can’t afford a doctor.”

“I can.”

“Please. Let me retain what little remains of my dignity.”

Leonardo huffed and rolled his eyes, busying himself with organizing the mess of books on the bedside table. He paused on one title and set it in his lap. “Is this new?”

“Mm. From my library back home. Biagio was good enough to send it.”

“Plutarch,” Leonardo chuckled, opening the well-worn pages. “Why am I not surprised?”

“I am not an especially surprising person.”

“Imola has taught you well in the art of falsehoods,” Leonardo countered, and Niccolò laughed, stopping only when he began to cough. “Oh, for—let me call for someone.”

“There’s a ducat in my left boot. Find a doctor who will visit for that, and you have a deal.”

Leonardo groaned, shaking his head, and leaned across the bed to arrange the blankets. “Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you if anything interesting happens.”

“Nothing interesting has happened here for three months.”

“I know. Sleep.” 

Niccolò sighed and closed his eyes once more, watching the drifting colors behind his lids. “Leonardo. We’ll get you away from here.”

“I know,” Leonardo repeated, his voice soft, fond. “Please, Niccolò. For me.”

Niccolò smiled. He was already slipping.

 

* * *

 

Something cool against his face. A hand in his hair—too tender to be Leonardo. Niccolò shifted, groaned, and someone hushed him in the dark.

“Shh. Shh, tesoro. It’s me.”

“Gilberto,” he mumbled, fumbling, and a warm, calloused hand found his, squeezed gently. “Leonardo…?”

“He sent for me several days ago. I haven’t stopped riding since I got the letter. I’m fairly certain my ass will never recover.”

Niccolò laughed weakly, tugging on his hand, and la Volpe eased himself into the bed. He leaned close and pressed a kiss to Niccolò’s sweaty temple, slipping a hand beneath the coverlet to rest it upon the younger man’s stomach.

“Sleep, love. I’m here.”

“Did you see…the snow…?”

“I did. Hurry up and recover so we can go enjoy it together.”

“So demanding,” Niccolò murmured, turning his face into the older man’s shoulder with a low sigh. “Gilberto.”

“Mm?”

“Thank you for coming.”

Volpe snorted, scratching at his lover’s short hair. “You know I only came for the food. The rest is just… happy coincidence.”

“But of course.” Niccolò’s hand tightened around his. “Nonetheless. I’m glad you’re here.”

 

 


	58. Wanderer

Much the same, after a while. Coming together, coming apart. 

Like this, usually. La Volpe’s hands around Machiavelli’s hips, drawing him close. Backing him against the desk. A hard look exchanged, violet eyes on gray, before la Volpe pulled him in. Kisses. Always. Never let it be said that Volpe was a thoughtless lover. Volpe could judge the intensity of the coming encounter from the way Niccolò kissed him. 

He liked it when Niccolò kissed him gently. Deeply. Like he was searching for something. Liked the way Niccolò allowed his entire body to move with the act, the way his hands roamed, restless. A man who could never hold still. 

It was good, then, to be the one to tie him down. In a bed, usually. Other places, when Volpe felt less charitable and Niccolò seemed wild. Tie him to a chair and watch him fight, struggle, smolder. Watch the defiance in his eyes when Volpe tilted his chin up.

“Give up?”

“Does fucking necessitate surrender?”

“Do you hide everything behind pretty words?”

“Do you?”

A fair counter. And always, Volpe grinned, leaned down. Kissed him. Again. He probably fell in love, first, with Machiavelli’s wicked mouth. 

He fell in other places, too. There were a thousand secret ways to lose oneself in Niccolò Machiavelli. Volpe, a good adventurer and a better opportunist, had never been afraid of being lost. He wandered through Niccolò without purpose, without aim. He never _meant_ to fall in love. It wasn’t a tragedy when he did.

It was, even, pleasant. He might have gone so far as to say enjoyable, to love the man, to be loved in return. Wanted. Did anyone else in the entire world smile to see him come through an open window, did anyone else chuckle to see him slip trinkets from unsuspecting pockets?

Who else in all of Creation entreated him to come back to bed? To come here? To lie down with me. Be with me. Talk with me. Let me touch you. Gilberto.

Volpe wandered, wandered, and became lost. 


	59. Fantasy II

“I want you to—to take control.”

 

Niccolò raised his eyebrows, scratching his nails lightly along Volpe’s bare chest. “If you want me to take the lead more in bed…”

 

“No. It’s not—that. This is…” Volpe shrugged, lifting a hand to trace his fingertips along Niccolò’s jaw. “A fantasy, if you will.”

 

He expected a bit of teasing—maybe a scoff—but Niccolò’s eyes gentled, and his smile was sincere. Handsomely roguish, in his way, but tender. It made Volpe’s heart stutter.

 

“Ah. I see. I’m certainly not opposed, though I’m not sure I know how.”

 

“I’ll help you,” Volpe said, tugging on him, and pulled him in for a kiss, slow and searching, groaning softly when Niccolò’s tongue clipped his teeth and slid along the roof of his mouth. “ _Fuck_. Niccolò, take me.”

 

“Did you want—"

 

“Some other time. I can’t wait.”

 

Niccolò laughed, leaning over to straddle the thief while Volpe worked eagerly at the laces of his hose. “You’re insatiable. You know that?”

 

“It wasn’t always thus,” Volpe grumbled, tipping his head up for another kiss. “You’ve ruined me.”

 

“I am devastation incarnate.”

 

“Was there ever any doubt?” Volpe shifted his legs open, letting Niccolò climb between them, and nipped sharply at his mouth. “You’re beautiful.”

 

“So I’ve been told. By you,” Niccolò sing-songed, pleased, and dipped his head to mouth along Volpe’s throat. “Tell me more about this fantasy.”

 

Volpe tipped his head back, humming, letting his eyes drift closed while Niccolò’s hands slid into his hose, teasing along skin that became heated at his touch. “I—I want it to be rough.”

 

“Come now. You can do better than that.”

 

The thief smiled, lifting his hips to let Niccolò slide his hose down his legs. Niccolò’s mouth brushed along the inside of his thigh. “I want you to pin me to the bed. Kiss me. Put my arms over my head. Open my legs.”

 

“That’s positively banal,” Niccolò huffed. His teeth scraped delicate skin, knuckles ghosting over Volpe’s rapidly growing erection.

 

Volpe sucked in a breath, lower back bowing. “I want…I want you to tie me down. I want you to use me.”

 

Niccolò lifted his head. One eyebrow quirked upwards. “Oh?”

 

“Fuck me,” Volpe went on, a little breathless. “Come inside me. Don’t let me finish. Leave me tied to your bed and—and leave me there until you want me again.”

 

Niccolò’s gaze darkened. He moved back up Volpe’s body, serpentine, and took the thief’s hands in his. Slowly—gently, even, giving Volpe room to protest—he stretched them up over Volpe’s head and pinned them to the mattress.

 

“Like this?” he asked, soft, and lowered his mouth to Volpe’s, let their lips brush. He rocked his hips down, and Volpe bit back a whine at the sensation of a hot velvety length sliding up along his.

 

“Harder.”

 

Niccolò obliged him—like he always did, damn him, damnably sweet man that he was, and Volpe kissed him hard, arching up into him.

 

“You feel so good,” Niccolò husked, freeing his mouth and kissing along the line of Volpe’s jaw. “I want that. I’ll do that for you.”

 

“I w-want a ring. For my cock. T-to keep me from—”

 

“Anything. Anything you want. When do I let you come?”

 

“When I can’t take it anymore. Have me gently then. Slowly.” Volpe shuddered and flexed his fingers around Niccolò’s, struggling to find enough friction to come, cock sliding slick against his lover’s. “Fuck, Niccolò, _please_. I want it.”

 

“Shh.” Niccolò’s mouth on his, soft, grounding, a hand between them, fingers slipping wetly over the head of his cock before gripping him tight. Volpe came, rough and quick, with quiet cries into Niccolò’s mouth, spilled messily across Niccolò’s hand and his own stomach. Niccolò dropped his weight, pressing into Volpe’s body, and ground himself against Volpe’s hip for no more than a few seconds before coming with a grunt, muffling a deeper moan against the side of Volpe’s neck.

 

They lay panting together afterward, a sweaty entanglement of limbs, and when Niccolò stirred, it was only to trail his fingertips through the mess on Volpe’s abdomen.

 

“Beautiful,” he said, a little hoarse, and Volpe tipped his head to kiss his damp hair. “Do you really want those things? If it was just something in the heat of the moment…”

 

“I do,” Volpe replied. The scratch of Niccolò’s nails down his belly was playful, comforting. Forgiveness, perhaps. An assurance, that he was permitted to want this. To want _them_. “Maybe, ah—maybe not tonight.”

 

“No,” Niccolò agreed, laughing into Volpe’s shoulder. “No, not tonight. We’ll plan for it well in advance.”

 

“But you would—that’s—”

 

“Tie you to my bed, keep my pretty fox at my disposal all day?” Niccolò purred, digging his nails into Volpe’s stomach until he hissed. “Oh, yes. I think I’d like that, Gilberto. I think I’d like it very much indeed.”


	60. Fantasy III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW or for minors, like. At all.
> 
> Warnings: light BDSM (bondage and blindfolding), minor sacrilege.

They negotiated. Planned. Fuck, Machiavelli was nothing if not a good planner. Volpe wanted a gag. Machiavelli said no. Volpe wanted a switch, or a riding crop. Machiavelli snorted.

 

 _Fuck_ no.

 

“I don’t want to hit you,” he said, with finality, and then, lower, his voice rough, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

Volpe had kissed him then. An acknowledgement, a quiet one, that the resistance to doing was every bit as important as the resistance to receiving. They would move ahead together or not at all.

 

That, and—and it was new and thrilling and _wonderful_ , to kiss someone who didn’t ever want to see him hurt.

 

* * *

 

 

This, then.

 

By the time Machiavelli finally tied him down to the bed, Volpe was ready to nearly sob his relief. His beloved acquiesced to the blindfold, so Volpe lay tied down in the dark, arms stretched over his head. Machiavelli refused to bind his ankles. Fair enough. In the event that their safe word (another stipulation) somehow went unheard, Volpe could kick him to signal a stop.

 

He doubted he would need to. But the consideration was appreciated, and he didn’t fight it.

 

Preparation, then—this, too, Machiavelli had insisted upon, in his infuriating way. In the heat of the moment, Volpe couldn’t complain—there was a delight to it, to lying open on the bed, breathing roughly, to hearing Niccolò open the little pot and slick his fingers, to the breathless anticipation of wondering when he would—

 

Two fingers, right off the bat. Volpe arched up, cried out, lost the next whimper in a kiss. Niccolò’s fingers moved inside him, soft, steady, despite the roughness of their entry; his other hand slid through the thief’s hair, smoothed it back from his brow, tugged wayward strands out from beneath the blindfold.

 

“Good,” Niccolò murmured, and Volpe’s heart stuttered. He’d never heard him like this, so affected, so hoarse. “Beautiful. What’s the word if you need to stop?”

 

“The word is apple,” Volpe mumbled, lips and tongue numb, and shuddered when Niccolò leaned down to kiss him again.

 

He’d been warned, of course, that this would be how it went—this was what he’d asked, after all. Once he was stretched and warm, and oh yes, hard, leaking wetly across his inner thigh, Machiavelli slid the plug into his pliant body—wood smoothed and then covered with a lacquer of Leonardo’s invention (no surprise there).

 

“Comfortable?”

 

The point wasn’t comfort. Volpe let it slide. “Yes.” He tilted his chin up, lips parted, expectant, and whined when he felt Machiavelli’s weight leave the bed. “ _Niccolò._ ”

 

“Hush.” Amusement, very faint, poorly disguised. The soft pop of buttons sliding through their holes, the clacking of a belt buckle coming undone. Machiavelli’s—coat, Volpe presumed—fell to the floor with a quiet thump.

 

Volpe whined, rolled his hips, shivered at the feel of the implement inside him, shifting around, deep and unyielding. Delicious, really. Brutal in a way his lover’s cock could never be.

 

He heard a chair scraping across the floor, creaking when it was given weight, and his heart plummeted.

 

“Wait—”

 

“You did tell me to use you at my leisure,” Niccolò reminded him, casual as a breeze. Volpe wondered if he was touching himself yet, if he was biting his lower lip, rubbing himself through his hose. He hoped he was. “You know the word if you need it to stop.”

 

Volpe did not want it to stop.

 

He lost track of time very quickly—easy to do, when one is blindfolded and one’s lover writes much more quickly than the average man. He listened to the scratching of a quill over paper and tried not to think too much about how impossibly full he felt, how, if he rocked his hips just so—

 

He only barely stifled a moan when a wriggle pressed the plug up against his prostate, lit him up inside. Niccolò stopped writing.

 

“Do you need to be held still?” he asked, mildly. Disinterested, almost. He hadn’t expected it, but the coolness of Machiavelli’s tone had Volpe’s heart thundering. A game, then. How to arouse his beloved’s interest.

 

“Perhaps,” Volpe replied, lifting his chin. A little hard, perhaps, to seem defiant when one was trussed up, blindfolded, and impaled by one of da Vinci’s perversions. But Volpe was nothing if not talented.

 

“Perhaps I’m not entirely sure you’ve earned it,” Machiavelli retorted, and Volpe whimpered at that. Too good to him, his tesoro. “I believe the point of this is your pleasure, is it not?”

 

“You love it,” Volpe bit out, and spread his legs a little wider. His thighs felt uncomfortably cool without Niccolò’s hips between them.

 

“Do I?”

 

“Don’t you?” Volpe moaned, rolled his hips. He was so hard it hurt. “I want you to touch yourself.”

 

“What makes you so sure I haven’t already?”

 

Volpe’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He felt weightless. Floating. “Have you?”

 

A pause—and then the chair moved back. Soft footfalls, unhindered by boots. A weight joining his on the bed, and then—yes, _yes_ —a hand trailing along his jaw, cupping beneath his chin. He heard laces coming undone, stiff leather giving way.

 

“I’ve hardly stopped since I blindfolded you.” Amused, yes—but reverent, as well. Wanting. How sweetly Niccolò wanted him, had always wanted him. “Open your mouth, love.”

 

Volpe did—hummed, eagerly—shuddered when he tasted the bitterness of precome, moaned at the texture of velvet on his tongue. Niccolò crooned softly down at him, wordless, and stroked a hand over Volpe’s hair, guided the head of his weeping cock into his lover’s mouth.

 

Moments, it seemed, mere moments—Volpe groaning, running his tongue along the head, only barely sucking, the soft swift sounds of Niccolò’s hand along his length—and then he grunted, low and helpless, and spilled in Volpe’s mouth, gasping sharply, the hand in Volpe’s hair tightening almost to the point of pain.

 

Volpe swallowed, running his tongue along his teeth, and flashed a grin upward, where he imagined Niccolò must be. “More than usual.”

 

“This is not our usual,” Niccolò said, chuckling, and a mouth met Volpe’s, impossibly gentle. “You’re astounding. I hope you know that.”

 

“I do,” Volpe replied, smugly, and Niccolò laughed and swatted at his ass.

 

“Do you need to stop?”

 

“Please, no. Never, if we can help it.”

 

“Do you need to come?”

 

“No,” Volpe said, even as his cock twitched and pulsed wetness across his thigh (a Judas).

 

“Alright then,” Niccolò murmured, and stole one last searing kiss, tongue slipping into Volpe’s mouth, a promise. “Back to work,” he breathed, drawing away, and the bed groaned in relief when he stood.

 

Volpe sighed and let his head thump back against the pillows, heard the scratching of the quill mere moments later. Diligent, his tesoro. Shit, but it was going to be a long night.


	61. Visit

 

> Where are you?
> 
>  
> 
> Venice. Awful this time of year.
> 
>  
> 
> Bring me back something
> 
>  
> 
> Like what?
> 
>  
> 
> Something expensive
> 
>  
> 
> It’s Venice? Everything is expensive.
> 
> Also do you know what I get paid? Not much.
> 
>  
> 
> How much is an hour of your time these days?
> 
>  
> 
> Ugh.
> 
>  
> 
> You love it.
> 
> Call me tonight.
> 
>  
> 
> I will
> 
>  
> 
> * * *
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Did we pay the internet bill this month?
> 
>  
> 
> ?? I dunno, did we?
> 
>  
> 
> Gil that’s your job
> 
> It’s your one job
> 
>  
> 
> Aside from my actual job of course
> 
> The one where I make money
> 
>  
> 
> Could you use a bit of it to pay the internet bill then?
> 
>  
> 
> How
> 
>  
> 
> What do you mean how
> 
>  
> 
> Like how do I do that?
> 
>  
> 
> You just
> 
> Nevermind i’ll do it
> 
>  
> 
> :3
> 
>  
> 
> We’re breaking up
> 
>  
> 
> xoxo
> 
>  
> 
> * * *
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Finished your manuscript
> 
>  
> 
> And?
> 
> Gilberto?
> 
>  
> 
> I just. Really love you.
> 
> [Read: 2:53 am]
> 
>  
> 
> * * *
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> We’re headed up to Florence
> 
> Finally
> 
>  
> 
> Say hi to your dad from me
> 
>  
> 
> I will.
> 
> [Read: 3:14 pm]
> 
>  
> 
> * * *
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> How’s everything at home?
> 
>  
> 
> Not good
> 
>  
> 
> ?? What’s wrong?
> 
>  
> 
> It’s my mother.
> 
> She didn’t recognize me.
> 
> [Missed call: Gilberto]
> 
>  
> 
> Could you pick up please
> 
> Nic I’m sorry. It must be awful. Could you call me?
> 
> Nic?
> 
> Okay just call me if you need to talk. Okay?
> 
> I love you.
> 
> [Read: 5:23 pm]
> 
>  
> 
> * * *
> 
>  
> 
> Hey Gil? This is Margherita :)
> 
>  
> 
> Hey! What’s up??
> 
> Nic told me it was kinda shitty at home?
> 
>  
> 
> It is :/ Mama’s not doing great so Dad’s hitting the wine again
> 
> Did Nico tell you what's even going on??
> 
> Nope
> 
> Of course not
> 
> She has Alzheimer's
> 
> I guess its pretty far along
> 
> Dad's been keeping it from all of us, even Primavera
> 
> Well fuck. I'm really sorry. That's gotta be like your worst nightmare.
> 
> Pretty much.
> 
> But I just wanted you to know that Nico is okay
> 
> Like he’s overwhelmed, we all are
> 
> But he’s okay
> 
> And I’ll try and get him to talk to you about what’s going on here
> 
> He gets like this when he’s upset
> 
>  
> 
> I know that much. Thank you for reaching out
> 
>  
> 
> Definitely :) and could you text me your number so I don’t have to steal his phone to get in touch with you? Haha
> 
>  
> 
> I sure can.
> 
> What're those digits girl
> 
>  
> 
> * * *
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Are you up?
> 
>  
> 
> For some reason yes
> 
>  
> 
> I miss you
> 
>  
> 
> I miss you too
> 
> Of course
> 
> How’re things?
> 
>  
> 
> Awful
> 
> Dad didn’t tell me how bad it all was.
> 
>  
> 
> You mean your mom?
> 
>  
> 
> Yes. But he didn’t tell me about his finances
> 
>  
> 
> Oh shit
> 
>  
> 
> Yeah. Mama needs round the clock care. Which he can’t afford.
> 
> Primavera wants us all to move home.
> 
>  
> 
> Oh double shit
> 
>  
> 
> I can’t
> 
> I mean
> 
> Right?
> 
> I can’t.
> 
>  
> 
> She’s asking a lot of you.
> 
>  
> 
> I know
> 
> But it’s my family
> 
>  
> 
> Yeah, it is.
> 
>  
> 
> My moving would be asking a lot of you as well.
> 
>  
> 
> Yeah
> 
> It would
> 
>  
> 
> Gil?
> 
> Gilberto, you’re my family too.
> 
> Please call me tomorrow.
> 
> [Read: 12:38 pm]
> 
>  
> 
> * * *
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> So what happens to Fiametta?
> 
>  
> 
> ???
> 
>  
> 
> In your book
> 
> I can’t stand your cliffhangers
> 
> They make me want to die
> 
>  
> 
> Oh
> 
> I haven’t decided yet.
> 
>  
> 
> Is there gonna be a sequel?
> 
>  
> 
> I’m not sure
> 
> Maybe?
> 
> Dom’s arc is pretty much resolved. I hadn’t thought about the story much beyond that.
> 
>  
> 
> Does Fiametta keep the kid??
> 
>  
> 
> I told you I haven’t decided
> 
>  
> 
> Okay but do she and Dom stay together???
> 
>  
> 
> I
> 
> Haven’t
> 
> Decided
> 
>  
> 
> You’re the author
> 
> Aren’t you supposed to know this shit
> 
>  
> 
> Only in theory
> 
>  
> 
> Please let them stay together
> 
>  
> 
> I’ll think about it
> 
>  
> 
> I don’t think distance is a good enough reason for them to break up
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for that feedback
> 
> How did you like the blaspheming nun subplot?
> 
>  
> 
> Okay so I have some thoughts on that
> 
>  
> 
> Of course you do
> 
>  
> 
> * * *
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Send nudes
> 
>  
> 
> Wow.
> 
>  
> 
> Please?????
> 
>  
> 
> Ugh
> 
> Give me ten minutes
> 
>  
> 
> :3 :3 :3
> 
> [Download Image]
> 
>  
> 
> * * *
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I saw Maria today
> 
>  
> 
> As in the girl next door Maria
> 
> As in your first love Maria
> 
> As in the girl you lost your virginity to Maria
> 
> That Maria
> 
>  
> 
> No the other Maria
> 
> Yes that Maria
> 
>  
> 
> Your sarcasm doesn’t translate well over text
> 
> Dick
> 
> How is she??
> 
>  
> 
> She’s married with children
> 
> Two I think
> 
>  
> 
> Wow
> 
> Did you tell her you’re nailing a guy these days
> 
>  
> 
> Ha ha ha
> 
> No.
> 
>  
> 
> Why not?
> 
>  
> 
> It didn’t come up
> 
>  
> 
> Oh
> 
>  
> 
> ?? What
> 
>  
> 
> Nothing
> 
> Okay it’s not nothing
> 
> I tell people about you all the time
> 
> I tell random strangers in line at the store that we’re together
> 
> And this person has been a part of your life since you were in diapers and you didn’t tell her about us?? When it obviously probably came up because she told you all about her life now so??
> 
> Idk Nic
> 
> I just don’t get you sometimes
> 
>  
> 
> I’m sorry
> 
>  
> 
> Weren’t you guys engaged when you were like twenty??
> 
> Like what the fuck Nic
> 
> Why didn’t you just tell her
> 
> Are you hoping to get back with her?
> 
>  
> 
> Of course not
> 
> Don’t be absurd
> 
> I don’t want to do this over text. Can you please call me?
> 
>  
> 
> I don’t want to talk
> 
> [Missed call: <3 Nic <3]
> 
> I said I don’t want to
> 
>  
> 
> Alright.
> 
> You know I love you?
> 
>  
> 
> Yeah.
> 
> Love you too
> 
>  
> 
> * * *
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Hey
> 
> I feel like I overreacted last night
> 
> Sorry
> 
>  
> 
> I wish you had told me that about thirty minutes ago
> 
>  
> 
> ??
> 
>  
> 
> I drove two hours back to Maria’s house
> 
>  
> 
> Oh my god
> 
>  
> 
> And rang the bell and as soon as she came out (in her bathrobe btw) I told her without preamble that I’m with a man named Gilberto and we’ve been living together for two years
> 
>  
> 
> Oh my GOD
> 
>  
> 
> Which was bad enough
> 
> But you know how I just talk when I get nervous
> 
>  
> 
> What did you say
> 
>  
> 
> I may or may not have told her about that custom dildo you had made of my dick
> 
>  
> 
> OHHH MYYYY GGGGOOODDDDDDDD
> 
>  
> 
> So please forgive me
> 
>  
> 
> I FORGIVE YOU
> 
>  
> 
> Her husband chased me off the property
> 
> He is huge and is named Vico
> 
>  
> 
> LMAO I’M SO SORRY
> 
> I LOVE YOU
> 
>  
> 
> I love you too.
> 
>  
> 
> * * *
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Hey are you alone?
> 
>  
> 
> Are you about to send a photo of your crotch
> 
>  
> 
> Ha ha
> 
> But real talk I didn’t realize how hard it was gonna be to be away from you for three weeks
> 
> Keyword hard
> 
> And I miss you
> 
>  
> 
> Here it comes
> 
>  
> 
> And okay yes I have a boner
> 
> So
> 
> Phone sex??
> 
>  
> 
> Thank God you’re not an animal in the wild
> 
> You’d have failed miserably at courtship rituals.
> 
>  
> 
> Is that a yes??
> 
> [Incoming call: <3 Nic <3]
> 
>  
> 
> * * *
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Hey
> 
> I think we should move to Florence
> 
>  
> 
> You can’t be serious
> 
>  
> 
> It’s your family
> 
> Florence is my home too
> 
> America’s whole political thing is like. Yikes. Right now
> 
> Gay marriage is probably next on the chopping block
> 
>  
> 
> Oh ha ha
> 
> Wait what??
> 
> We’re not married
> 
>  
> 
> Yeah so you should probably fly home and marry me
> 
> And then we can pack up the house and go back
> 
>  
> 
> You just proposed
> 
> Over text message
> 
> Like a barbarian
> 
> Or a sixteen year old
> 
> Or a sixteen year old barbarian
> 
>  
> 
> I also kinda already booked our honeymoon tickets so
> 
> Time is a factor here
> 
>  
> 
> I can’t believe you
> 
>  
> 
> So that’s a yes??
> 
>  
> 
> I hate you
> 
> Yes
> 
>  
> 
> Screencapped for posterity
> 
> I’m putting that in the invitations
> 
> I’ll propose properly when you get home
> 
>  
> 
> You had damn well better
> 
>  
> 
> :*
> 
>  
> 
> Stop
> 
>  
> 
> Love you
> 
>  
> 
> I love you
> 
> Too.
> 
> Call me.
> 
> [Incoming call:  Gilberto]
> 
>   
>    
>    
>    
>    
>    
>    
>    
>    
> 


End file.
